


Denial and its Side Effects

by HashtagMC



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Background Relationships, Drug Addiction, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Friendship, HP: EWE, Hogwarts Eighth Year, M/M, Nightmares, Potions, Romance, Slow Build, Substance Abuse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-22
Updated: 2016-12-17
Packaged: 2018-07-16 14:49:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 29,465
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7272535
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HashtagMC/pseuds/HashtagMC
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Shortly after returning to Hogwarts to complete his education, Harry begins to suffer from nightmares. At the same time, he begins to form some sort of friendship with Draco Malfoy, the disgraced heir of the Malfoy family. His friends don't approve of this, but Harry insists that everyone deserves a second chance.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

To say Draco Malfoy was surprised when the Ministry came to arrest his parents would be a lie. He was not. If anything, he was surprised that they didn't take _him_ with them – if they needed another reason aside from the Dark Mark on his forearm, they could still charge him for assisting in the murder of Albus Dumbledore. But, according to the Ministry witches and wizards, someone had advocated for Draco. Of course, they didn't say any names, leaving Draco with the knowledge that he not only owed his life to Harry Potter, but also his freedom to an unknown saviour. Terrific.

To say the parting was tearful would also be a lie. Draco Lucius Malfoy was the heir to the Malfoy estate and future head of the family – or, what was left of the estate – and a Malfoy did not cry. He hadn't many tears left anyway, and he surely wouldn't waste them for his parents. The days in which his father was the centre of Draco's world were long gone, and for his mother – well, she'd be free in a few years. Draco hadn't attended the trial, but from what he'd heard, Potter had claimed that she had saved his life during the Battle for Hogwarts (as the press dubbed it). She'd most likely live with her relatives on the Continent as soon as she'd be discharged from Azkaban. Draco wouldn't have to worry about her. And after the war and everything that came with it, their wasn't much _family_ left between them. Draco believed in the purity of blood, but said blood was all that connected him to his parents at the time being,

To say Draco Malfoy was surprised when the letter from Hogwarts arrived would be an understatement. He had expected to be an outcast for the rest of his life – acquitted or not, he had still fought for the Dark Lord – but he had _not_ expected the _Hogwarts School for Witchcraft and Wizardry_ to invite him for an eighth year, so he could catch up on what he'd missed during his, ah, _services_ for _He-Whom-Shall-Not-Be-Named_. Attached was the usual list of necessary items – robes, school books, ingredients for potions, and whatnot – and the letter concluded with the standard phrase they used for this letters.

Draco briefly considered burning the letter and forgetting about it, but the prospect of returning to Hogwarts proved to be too tempting. Not that he was that keen on completing his education – he could easily do this by hiring a private tutor. He could still vividly remember a conversation with Pansy during his sixth year – if his memory served Draco correctly, he had asked what he needed an education for when he was serving the Dark Lord. But times had changed, and even though nobody would employ a Malfoy, completing the N.E.W.T.s would certainly improve his chances.

Which was why he found himself in the Diagonal Alley at the end of August. It was the first time that he showed his face in public after the trial against him, and Draco was highly aware of the glances people gave him, and the hushed voices in which people talked about him. Once, a long time ago, he had believed that he belonged into this world, that his pure blood made him a king amongst these people. But now? In the eyes of these people, he had failed them, betrayed them. He no longer belonged here. It wasn't a secret that most people would rather have him in Azkaban. Sure, there were those who took pity on him, saying that he'd been forced or talked into joining the Dark Lord, that he hadn't been old enough to understand the consequences of his actions. Bullshit. Draco would much rather suffer in Azkaban than be _pitied_. A Malfoy might stoop low, but a Malfoy did not need pity.

Thus, Draco ignored the pointed looks and without hesitation stepped into one store after another, chalking item after item off of his list. Books, ingredients, feather quills, until only one thing was left. A new wardrobe. Draco had the distinct feeling that wearing his black robes with the Malfoy insignia on it would be a _very_ bad idea. He did not intend to test his fellow wizards' patience.

 _Fellow wizards_ , Draco thought as he headed to _Madam Malkin's_. This term was new. He used to subconsciously sort his _fellow wizards_ into different categories, based on the purity of their blood, whom their family were, whom they socialised with. Then, during the war, he had sorted people into _ally_ , _enemy_ or _neutral_. But now… what was the point of doing so? Those categories had ceased to exist. There still were enemies, but not the kind of enemy who would try and murder him. There still were neutrals, or at least people who begrudgingly accepted the fact that he was not imprisoned. There were no allies. Nobody in their right mind would put up with the son of Lucius Malfoy, not if they cared the slightest bit about their reputation.

 

To say Harry Potter was surprised when Draco Malfoy was acquitted would be a lie. He had somewhat expected it. Malfoy's lawyer had done a great job, and the judge couldn't ignore the fact that for Malfoy, the choice had been either join the Death Eaters, or die a gruesome death after you've watched your family die. Malfoy had never had a choice in but to comply with Voldemort's orders, and Harry had seen what this meant to Malfoy first-hand when he'd witnessed the other boy's breakdown in Myrtle's toiled. Malfoy had known what was coming, and it had broken him. It was a miracle he was still sane.

To say Harry Potter was relieved when Draco Malfoy was acquitted would be the truth. He had hoped so. He had no idea what had driven him to turn around and save Malfoy's life when Goyle had set the Room of Requirements on fire, but he had not regretted it. Malfoy had his whole life left to live. Despite from what an asshole Malfoy was, he didn't deserve to die. And, Harry felt like he owed Malfoy. He knew for sure that Malfoy had recognised him at the Malfoy Mansion, but he had not turned him in. Whatever traces of morale were left inside Malfoy, they would have died as soon as he would have been sent to Azkaban.

To say Harry Potter was looking forward to going back to Hogwarts would be true as well. He had been AWOL during the whole seventh year, in order to find and destroy Horcruxes, save the world from a new dark era, find a way to kill Lord Voldemort, and avoid getting killed himself in the process. He had no idea what he wanted to do now – he no longer wanted to be an Auror, he had dealt with enough Dark Magic for the rest of his life – and most people would love to employ him, no matter what his grades were, but Hermione was right, he _did_ need to catch up on missed education. And spending another year at Hogwarts meant he had another year until he had to make decisions like where he wanted to live and how he wanted to earn his money. And, Harry somewhat hoped that at Hogwarts, he would rather be Harry Potter instead of the _Boy Who Lived Twice_.

To say Harry Potter was surprised when he stepped into Madam Malkin's to buy himself new robes and found himself face to face with Draco Malfoy would be a shameless understatement. He hadn't heard anything of Malfoy once the commotion about the former Death Eater not being sent to Azkaban had died down. But right, even Malfoy couldn't hide in his mansion forever. Harry figured that probably, Malfoy would feel lonely, sitting all alone in an empty mansion, filled with memories of his parents and his time as a Death Eater. Maybe even Malfoy could feel the need to be amongst other people. This theory, however, crumbled as soon as the other wizard spoke up.

'Hogwarts, too?'

Not for the first time, Draco Malfoy wished he would have burned the letter from Hogwarts. _Of course_ students would stare at him as he dragged his bag along with him towards the Hogwarts Express. _Of course_ parents would send him resentful or scared looks when he walked past them and their children. _Of course_ insults would be whispered at him, and _of course_ rumours about Draco Malfoy attending Hogwarts again would be spread within _minutes_. Even people who used to call themselves his friends now avoided him or threw dirty looks at him. Now, stripped of the power he'd once had, bearing a name that was associated with disgrace rather than influence, everybody had abandoned him.

If it weren't about him but anyone else, it would be rather funny, Draco thought. Or at least, he would have found it funny it he still were the same boy he used to be, before the whole mess with You-Know-Who. Eight years ago, he had been here, excited at the prospect of finally joining the house Slytherin, and back then, he had seized every opportunity to make fun of people. His eight-year old self would surely laugh at his current situation. The fallen king.

Eight years ago, Draco had snorted at the sight of the red locomotive. Red, as in, Gryffindor-coloured. Why couldn't it be green? Eight years before, he had thought Slytherin ought to rule all the other houses and show them just how much worthier slyness was than courage or studying. Now he thought different. As much as he appreciated typical Slytherin traits – power play, slyness, a sense of self-preservation – he had to admit that, if it weren't for the cleverness of a certain Ravenclaw, or the bravery of a bunch of Gryffindor's, the world would be ruled by the Dark Lord now. And if it weren't for the courage of a single, well-known Gryffindor, Draco would be dead by now. He had despised Harry Potter ever since Potter had refused his offer of friendship eight years ago, but he guessed he was supposed to be grateful. He owed his life to the spoiled brat.

Draco wasn't surprised when nobody wanted to sit in the compartment of the train he was sitting in. He didn't care, this was he had the whole room for himself, with no one annoying him. Or that was what he tried to tell himself. A Malfoy didn't need anybody to keep him company.

By now, Hermione, Harry and Ron had searched through the whole train, but almost all compartments were occupied. Sure, the better part of the students would have loved to share a room with the Saviour of the Wizarding World and his friends, especially first- and second-years, but Harry felt nauseous at the thought of being in the same room as a bunch of hysterically giggling girls, or eleven-year-olds staring at his scar. A handful of their friends shared a room – Dean, Seamus, Neville, Ginny, Luna – and they had offered for Harry to sit with them, but the room was full, and Harry didn't want anybody to have to sit uncomfortably or leave the room just so he could sit there as well.

Harry inwardly groaned when they walked past another door, behind which a group of Ravenclaw girls sat, giggling ancvx waving as Harry passed by them. His break-up with Ginny wasn't official yet, but even if it was, did these girls think their chances were higher if they annoyed him to death?

Yeah, Ginny. They had parted after the war. There had been a time when he had really loved her, but whatever spark his heart had held for her, it was gone. He had realised this when she had left for the Burrow while he had stayed at Hogwarts for two more weeks, and hadn't missed her. Not the way he used to, anyway. Or when he had caught himself thinking of her as a _friend_ , without the prefix _girl_. That had been the sign for him that he needed to end this, otherwise he'd be leading her on. He had done so the very day he had arrived at the Burrow, and to Harry's immeasurable relief, Ginny had not reacted as badly as he had feared. She had cried, yes, and he had apologised for hurting her, but she had refused his apology, saying he couldn't really apologise for something he had no control over. She couldn't force him to love her, and thus had to let go. Harry had felt indescribably grateful to have such an understanding ex-girlfriend. He still loved her, but in a definitely platonic way, a brother/sister way.

Ron had been furious, though. He had only begrudgingly 'allowed' them to be together – and Harry knew, he would have never dared to date Ginny if it would have meant to lose Ron as a friend – and now, as Ron saw it, Harry had dumped her. It took Hermione two whole weeks to talk some sense into him and disabuse him from wringing Harry's neck, and another two weeks before he had talked to Harry again. He had sheepishly apologised for his fit at the end of the Summer Break.

And the rest of the Weasley family hadn't held it against Harry, either. Not for the first time, Harry was glad to somewhat be a part of this family, by all but blood. He had virtually been adopted by Mrs. and Mr. Weasley the first time he had set foot in the Burrow.

Finally, the three of them found an almost empty compartment in the last train car. It was unoccupied except for one person—

'Malfoy,' Ron groaned. Harry ignored him and instead slid open the door.

'May we sit here?'

Malfoy briefly looked up, then shrugged.

'Whatever, Potter.'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This work was originally posted on fanfiction.net. I will upload everything I've written so far, then update both FF and AO3 simultaneously. The story is also tagged as Dean/Seamus, but they are only a side pairing that will be mentioned later in the story.
> 
> This story is beta-read by the lovely **[hes-beauty-hes-jason-grace](https://www.fanfiction.net/u/5229579/)** from fanfiction.net – as always, thank you! If you'd like, you can check out her stories and profile at FF.net!


	2. Settling In

Hogwarts had taken a lot of damage in the final battle, the Great Battle of Hogwarts (as dubbed by the _Daily Prophet_ ). Harry definitely didn't like this term. There was nothing _great_ about the battle. There never was. War still remained war, no matter how _great_ people thought it was. There were no heroes of war, just the never ending chain of _kill or get killed_ situations. War was dirty, war was bloody, and war came with casualties. When Harry had first read what Rita Skeeter had written about an _acceptable_ amount of victims, he had wondered whether or not the Ministry would let him get away with murder. There was no such thing as an acceptable amount of casualties. Each and every death was one death too much. Harry wondered what this monster in human shape would have written if the war would have ended without a single death. Probably not newsworthy at all.

During the time which would have been Summer Break under normal circumstances, a team of specialists had worked to rebuild the castle, renew the spells which hid it from Muggle eyes, and double-check the magic of it. Several portraits had been replaced, because the originals had been damaged too much. The greenhouses had been renovated – with the help of an overly enthusiastic Neville – and a few parts of the castle had been refurbished past all recognition. The only part mostly undamaged had been the dungeons and, ironically, the Slytherin common room.

Next to Dumbledore's tomb, a memorial had been constructed, bearing the names of all wizards, witches, goblins, house-elves, giants, and anybody else who had died during the Second Wizarding War. Harry was glad to see that the dead got the recognition they deserved, but every time he walked past the white marble, his chest stung. He didn't need to look at the engravings – he knew all the names by heart. The list started with people who were near and dear to him – Sirius Black, Remus Lupin, Albus Dumbledore, Fred Weasley, Nymphadora Tonks – and ended with countless students who had defended this very school against the Death Eaters. Well, not countless. Harry knew the numbers. Ninety-and-seven people had died since the anew rise of Tom Riddle.

Some of the names were harder to bear than others. Many of those below the age of seventeen years had snuck back into the school to fight, and the better part of them had gotten themselves killed in the process, due to lack of experience. The worst of them had been a first-year, who had nothing beyond theoretical knowledge about some magical creatures. Harry could never look into another pair of eleven-year-old eyes again without reliving the day he had had to face the parents of the dead first-grader. Professor McGonagall had offered to do so herself, but Harry had refused, ninety-and-seven times. Those people deserved to learn the news from the man their sons and daughters had died for, and if they wanted to blame him, it was their right.

The Great Hall wasn't the same as it was before the war. They had replaced the windows with coloured ones, like the windows of a church. It showed scenes, not from the war, but from the everyday life at Hogwarts. Students playing Quidditch, brewing potions, practising spells, or tending plants in the greenhouses. It was a constant reminder that, even after the war, life continued. New first-graders had arrived, and for the first time since his first year at Hogwarts, Harry would get to hear the song of the Speaking Hat again. No Whomping Willow or Dementor to keep him away from the opening ceremony.

It felt unfamiliar to see Professor McGonagall deliver the speech instead of Dumbledore. _Headmistress_ McGonagall. They had, on Harry's insistence, inserted a portrait of Dumbledore into the huge window above the Staff Table, and the smile of the glass-Dumbledore reminded Harry of his first day. Dumbledore's idea of a speech had been to encourage everybody to dig in and remind the Weasley twins not to sneak into the Forbidden Forest. McGonagall, the greatest professor Harry had ever had the pleasure of meeting, couldn't keep up with the greatest headmaster Hogwarts had ever had in its long history.

Harry was jolted out of his thoughts when Professor McGonagall placed the Speaking Hat on its stool, and the hat opened his mouth and began to sing.

_I may seem old and may seem torn  
Too many heads have had me worn_

_And though I have no eyes and ears  
I can sense your skills and fears_

_Hard times we have seen and felt  
With evil wizards we have dealt_

_Many lives this war has cost'  
Many friends we all have lost_

_Yet you shall not mourn the past  
Since for each of those who passed_

_A new face I can see in here  
A new voice I can hear in here_

_To sort the hous's my task is now  
And to do my best I vow_

_Don't hesitate, put on your head  
Me old and worn but speaking hat_

_Your new home I shall show to you  
The place where to belong you do_

_If smart and zealous 's what you are  
You do belong to Ravenclaw_

_If bravery you do have more  
I shall place you in Gryffindor_

_If friendship you do value much  
You might feel home at Hufflepuff_

_If sly you are and slick within  
your place then is at Slytherin_

Applause echoed through the Great Hall after the Sorting Hat had finished his song. Then, Professor McGonagall unrolled the parchment which held the names of the new first-graders, calling each of them up to be assigned to a house by the hat. Harry involuntarily smiled at the memory of how nervous he'd been back then, afraid the hat might send him back home. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Ron and Hermione smile as well.

'Addams, Benjamin!' Professor McGonagall called.  
'Hufflepuff!' Applause from the Hufflepuff table.

'Ahmed, Muhammad!'  
'Ravenclaw!'

'Bond, Zachary!'  
'Ravenclaw!'

'Bancroft, Logan!'  
'Slytherin!'

…

The list went on and on. 'Crawley, Amber' was the first new Gryffindor, two twins going by the surname of Murray, who had wished to be Gryffindors, were sent to Ravenclaw – though they didn't look unhappy, given that the Sorting Hat considered them smart enough to be Ravenclaws. The row of the new students grew shorter and shorter, and Harry didn't envy the poor girl who was the last person waiting while 'Wright, Callum!' made his way to the Slytherin table.

After 'Wright, Leah!' had sat down at the Gryffindor table – by now, Harry was pitying her, being in the house which was supposed to be the arch rival or her brother's – the meal started, and, _god_ , how Harry had missed the treacle tart from Hogwarts' kitchen. Within seconds, the whole student body was chattering, and Harry could see a few shocked faces here and there, when muggle-born (or, muggle-raised) first-graders learned about the war. Harry hoped his housemates wouldn't scare the young children. They needed to know what had happened, yes, but no need for cruel details. He couldn't really imagine a Gryffindor deliberately scaring a little kid. Maybe someone like Malfoy—

No, actually, Harry couldn't picture Malfoy scaring a first-grader either. Not the new Malfoy, anyway. He had seen this new Malfoy at the trial for the first time, when he had quietly muttered 'guilty as charged', without looking anyone in the eye. The old Malfoy would have taunted the judge, or demanded to be judged by a pure-blood. Then, on the train. Malfoy had not merely acknowledged their presence and all but _allowed_ them to stay. The old Malfoy would have mocked them, made a comment on Ron, would have insulted Hermione, and maybe taunted their absent friends as well. So it was obvious – well, maybe not to Ron, but to Harry, and hopefully to Hermione, too – that Malfoy had changed.

Harry had been offered to be a prefect by Professor McGonagall, but he had refused. He didn't need any more responsibility to bear. In fifth year, he had felt hurt when Dumbledore hadn't made him a prefect, but now, he was three years older and god-knew-how-many years more mature. War had made him an adult prematurely, and war had left its scars and traces. One of them being his new-found fear to bear responsibility. He wouldn't allow anyone to die for him again. This decision he had made in the midst of the combat, and he was going to stick to it.

The new Gryffindor prefects – it was strange to have someone younger than himself lead him, Harry thought – led them to the Gryffindor tower once the feast was over. Harry hadn't felt really festive at all. He knew he should, and the wizarding world truly had a reason to celebrate, even though Voldemort's defeat had been _months_ ago – after the first time Tom Riddle had died, the wizards and witches had celebrated for months as well. And back then, the celebrations had also been overshadowed by the deaths of James Potter and Lily Evans.

Suddenly, the row of students came to a halt when they reached the portrait of the Fat Lady, and Harry violently bumped into Ron and Hermione. 'Password?' the Fat Lady said, and Harry could hear a few gasps here and there, coming from the new students. ' _Negatio_ ,' the prefect recited the new password, and the portrait hole swung open, granting them access to the Gryffindor common room.

Harry immediately strode towards the boy's dormitories, pointedly ignoring the worried glances Hermione, Ron, and Ginny gave him. They had already noticed his somewhat depressed attitude at the Burrow, but so far, Harry had successfully evaded all talks about his mental state, not-so-sublty changing the subject or bluntly ignoring questions whenever the topic came up. He was fine, as fine as a mentally scarred young adult could be after he fought a war and saw his friends die. Alright, so he was _not_ fine, but nothing a shrink could say would change anything. Harry would have to deal with this by himself.

He knew he had trust-issues. You don't live on the run for one year without becoming wary and suspicious. When you begin to suspect everyone of having taken Polyjuice potion and pretending to be someone else, you know something is wrong. Harry thought that slowly, he had become as paranoid as Mad-Eye. He didn't dare turn his back to people when their wand was in their hands, even in class. The number of people he trusted was small – maybe ten. Ron and Hermione, of course. Ginny. George? _Nah, who knows what he is able to do, so shortly after losing his brother_ , the voice in his head unhelpfully whispered. Who else? Professor McGonagall. Mrs and Mr Weasley. _Draco Malfoy_ , another voice in his head supplied, and Harry frowned. So he trusted his former arch enemy, but not the brother of his best friend? How flipping screwed up was he?

Of course he didn't trust Draco. He could never. He was just tired, he decided. _On the other hand, you could trust the_ new _Draco_ , the voice kept arguing. It fought a lost battle. Harry Potter did _not_ trust Draco Malfoy. Period.

Two weeks of being back at school, and Draco already thought it was hell. He took in his surroundings as he stepped into the Slytherin common room. There had been a time when the green light had made him feel more or less at home; now it was a reminder of times he wanted to forget. Too many bad memories were connected to this place.

By the fireplace, he could see Goyle's – so far fruitless – efforts to win Pansy's affection. His eleven, or maybe thirteen year old self would have jokingly considered to buy Goyle a book about love, just to laugh at the question whether or not Goyle could read. But now? Draco caught himself finding it rather… cute? Good god. He was becoming a flipping sentimental Gryffindor. His father would throw a tantrum in his cell at Azkaban if he knew… not that Draco cared about his father anymore. Unfortunately, other people _did_ care about his father.

Draco was at Hogwarts for two weeks now, and already he had had to visit Madam Pomfrey because some sixth-grader had thought it'd be funny to send a trip hex after Draco, for 'being a fucking bloody traitor, Death Eater scum!' Draco had strained a muscle in his ankle and broken his wrists – both – as he fell down the stairs. Madam Pomfrey had asked, of course, but he had refused to turn the other guy in. It wouldn't do him any good. If anything, he'd get it paid back the next time. Probably for 'being a bloody tell-tale', or something like that. Draco had also seen some other students give him dirty looks, so he probably had a few more injuries coming.

Actually, there were two factions at school which _despised_ each other, but both had it out for Draco. On the one hand, there was the 'light side', the self-entitled 'good guys', who had fought against the Dark Lord, and considered everyone who had done otherwise either a coward or a traitor. With Draco, of course, being on top of that list. He had tried to explain the guys who had beaten him up the other day that he had not had a _fucking bloody choice_ , but they didn't care. To them, he was a traitor and deserved punishment, and they let show what they meant by that. Draco's entire body still hurt, and he would sure as hell have bruises where their fists had hit him. Luckily, no bone was broken, because Draco didn't wish to see Madam Pomfrey so soon again.

Then, on the other hand, there was the – much smaller faction – of the children of the former Death Eaters, most of them being his housemates at Slytherin. To them, Draco was a traitor as well, but for completely different reasons. Because unlike their parents, who had been Death Eaters just as he had been, he wasn't imprisoned. They suspected him of having cooperated with the Ministry and turning people in, and thus beat him up. He hadn't done anything like that, but that didn't keep them from doing so. They needed a scapegoat, and he was the perfect victim for them. It had been one of Draco's lovely fellow Slytherins who had shot the trip jinx at him.

During class, Draco tried to blend with the mass as best as he could. The teachers didn't treat him any differently than they had the years before, besides the obvious fact that Professor Snape wasn't there anymore. Draco rarely ever raised his hand during classes, he just silently did whatever was demanded from him, did his homework in time, and quietly entered and left the classroom at the beginning and end of each lesson. His grades were always satisfying – _A_ s and _E_ s weren't exactly top, but it was enough. The only subject Draco exceeded in was Potions. Sure, Snape had always praised him more than other students, but also without a teacher who favoured Draco, he was an excellent student when it came to potions.

The worst, however, was at night, when Draco lay awake for several hours. It wasn't that he slept particularly bad – not worse than most of the other veterans, anyway – but the insecurity which hung above his head was what kept him awake. He was fairly certain he would pass his exams without major problems, but what then? Apply for a job? They wouldn't want a former Death Eater. Sure, what was left of the Malfoy estate was enough to live in peace for the rest of his life, but the prospect of being lonely for the rest of his life was enough to scare Draco. Even though a Malfoy oughtn't to be scared. He refused to admit it to himself, but now that he had an actual life without a war or a Dark Lord to rule said life, he realised that he was all but _craving_ for a significant other. Someone to confide in. Someone to trust, to love, to have his back. Someone in whose presence he would be just Draco. Not Draco M _alfoy_ , not Draco the traitor, Draco the Death Eater, Draco the failure. Someone to whom Draco could be himself.

Not that he would ever have such a person. A Malfoy wasn't supposed to cry, and so Draco didn't. This particular Malfoy wasn't supposed to be happy, and so he never would be.


	3. Trouble Ahead

When Harry woke up, he felt rather sick. Not the physical kind of _sick_ , as in, catching the flu or something. More like… more like something terrible had happened, something that he didn't remember.

Harry furrowed his eyebrows and tried to remember. Yesterday evening, he had finished some homework for Magic History (after Hermione had urged him and Ron to do so), exchanged a few friendly words with Dean, Seamus and Neville, brushed his teeth and gone to bed. Nothing unusual so far. He remembered to then lying awake for maybe an hour or two and hearing the others one by one stepping into the dorms and going to bed as well, first Neville, then Ron, then Dean and Seamus (those two were really connected by the hips, even more so after their reunion during the battle). Harry couldn't quite pinpoint the time when he'd fallen asleep – maybe one or two o'clock?

He was pretty sure he'd dreamt something bad, but for the life of him, he couldn't remember what exactly it had been. All which was left were glimpses, images in the corner of his mental eye, but when he tried to focus on them, they disappeared, slipping through his fingers like the Golden Snitch during a bad Quidditch match. The images always stayed just out of his reach. Harry groaned in frustration. He was sure that this was something important – he'd never felt so down after a bad dream, unless it was one of his Voldemort-visions – and the sheer feeling of being powerless and unable to catch whatever it was drove him insane. Angrily, Harry punched his mattress, pretending not to see the look Ron send him.

Harry briefly considered to talk to Ron and Hermione about this, but he quickly discarded the idea. Ron would either declare him mental, or write it off as post-war-stress – the muggles called it PTSD, right? – and Harry had no need to see St. Mungo's Mental Ward from the inside. He was completely sane, thank you very much. Meanwhile, Hermione would probably bury herself, and Harry, in books about dreams, their meaning, and whatnot. He didn't need that either. Books could only solve so many problems, and one day, even Hermione would understand it.

'—ry? You okay, mate?'

On the sound of Ron's voice, Harry's head snapped upwards, causing Ron to flinch. 'Are sure you're okay, Harry? You've just stared into nothing for like, five minutes?'

'Didn't get enough sleep,' Harry shrugged it off. That wasn't even a lie. He had definitely not slept enough recently. But this wasn't the answer to Ron's unspoken question – _what's wrong?_

'If you say so,' Ron shrugged before turning his attention from Harry towards Dean and Seamus. The two were happily smiling at each other as they made their way towards the common room, a content silence between them. Harry envied them. They had been best friends from the day they'd met, but unlike him and Ron, they almost never argued. Dean had not approved of Seamus behaviour towards Harry during their fifth year, and the air between them had been a bit tense after Seamus' argument with Harry, but that was all. Seamus had been quite pissed when Dean had dated Ginny because that meant his quality time with his best friend was reduced to precisely nothing (to be honest – Harry had been more than pissed, though for different reasons), and Seamus had comforted Dean back then after Ginny broke up with him just to shamelessly snog Harry (in retrospect, Harry realised that he could have been a tad more considerate of Dean's feelings). The two best mates got along wordlessly. Dean had the unique ability to calm Seamus down when he was throwing a tantrum, and Seamus was the only one who could calm down Dean when he was having a nightmare about the time he'd been hiding from the Death Eater-controlled Ministry and eventually got caught by them. Most times, Dean's nightmares ended with him waking up in tears, and Seamus wordlessly crawling into the bed next to Dean, the two best friends then falling asleep in each other's arms. If it weren't for the nightmares, it would be rather adorable.

'Harry,' Hermione said, 'you look like shit. What has happened?'

Harry pointed towards the chalkboard, where the new DADA teacher was talking about curses. 'I think we should pay attention to the lesson,' he said in an obvious attempt to change the subject. Unsurprisingly, it didn't work.

'… _the Bat-Bogey Hex was invented in the middle of the 20th century by…'_

'Harry James Potter, don't dare to "I think we should pay attention" me. I know perfectly well that you don't give a dam about this crap,' Hermione retorted, her annoyance about Harry's failed attempt to distract her clearly audible in her voice. Harry snorted. 'Who are you, and where's the real Hermione Granger? You _never_ say "crap" about classes.'

'Bullshit,' Hermione shot back. 'Bat-Bogey Hexes? We've learned those when we were _fifteen_ , Harry. You can't pretend that you really care about this. And even if you've forgotten about them, you can always ask Gin—' She suddenly stopped and took a sharp intake of breath. 'Shit, sorry Harry. Didn't mean to bring this up,' she apologised. Harry shrugged. 'I told you, it was harder for her than for me. You don't have to apologise every time you mention her name.' He glanced at Ron. 'No offence, mate.' Back to Hermione, 'really, we're still talking to each other, aren't we? It's not like it ended in tears – well, it did, but not mine anyway—'

From his right, a fist collided with Harry's jaw, and another one with his nose. 'Fuck you, Harry. Just fuck you,' Ron hissed, furiously glaring daggers at Harry. Judging by the blood Harry could feel running down his face, and the pain in his nose, it was broken. He tentatively moved his jaw, and immediately winced, but at least it wasn't broken as well. With a start, Harry realised that the whole class had turned their heads towards the little scene he and Ron had caused, and even the teacher had stopped her rambling about the Bat-Bogey Hex.

'Um, I guess I'm going to the Hospital Wing,' Harry said, gesturing towards his nose with his free hand, the other hand collecting the blood that dripped from his nose. He sent the teacher an apologetic look before stepping out of the classroom.

'Bloody fuck, Ron,' Harry muttered under his breath as he strode through the empty hallways of the castle. He knew Ron's bad temper, and okay, he should have chosen his words a bit more carefully, but he had just tried to make Hermione understand that she didn't need to walk on eggshells around him whenever Ginny's name was mentioned. He was over her – in fact, the part which had hurt most was the knowledge how much their breakup hurt Ginny.

Harry was so lost in his thoughts, he didn't pay attention to his surroundings until he bumped into someone. Unfortunately, said someone was Professor McGonagall.

'Shit, sorry Professor!' Harry said as he got up from the floor.

'Language, Mr. Potter,' Professor McGonagall scolded him. 'Do you mind to enlighten me where you are headed? As far as I know, you should listen to Professor Jones right now.' Hestia Jones, member of the former Order of the Phoenix, had been the only one willing to take over the vacant job of the Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher. A big part of the Order had died or got injured during the war, and many people still believed that the job was cursed.

'I'm on my way to the infirmary, Professor,' Harry replied. 'Somebody broke my – I mean, I had an accident and broke my nose,' he lied. No need to drag Ron into this, even though his best friend could be quite a prick from time to time.

Professor McGonagall's look told him she knew _exactly_ what he had been about to say, but she didn't pry any further. 'Well, go ahead then, Mr. Potter.' And gone she was.

'…figure you won't tell me who did this, Mr. Malfoy?' Harry froze at Madam Pomfrey's voice as he pushed open the doors to the Hospital Wing.

'I'm afraid I will not,' came Malfoy's voice, the same polite yet cold tone he sported ever since he had returned to school. 'Somebody was trying to get back at me, that's all I can—' he caught Harry's face in the mirror, and immediately flushed. 'Were you eavesdropping, Potter?'

'I wasn't!' Harry defended himself, completely aware of the fact that his face was red as well, and embarrassed upon being caught, even though he had only overheard the last words when he'd stepped into the infirmary.

Malfoy snorted, and for a moment, Harry saw a glimpse of the old Malfoy. 'Sure as hell you weren't, Potter! You were totally _not_ sneaking around and listening in! Of course not! The noble Potter would never do such a thing, now, would he, _Potter_?'

Just then, Harry noticed the blood on Malfoy's wrists and palms. 'You're hurt,' he said, feeling dumb for stating the obvious. Malfoy bared his teeth. 'I always knew you weren't the sharpest knife in the drawer, but I never knew you were this stupid. Of course I am hurt, Potter! What do you think why they call it the Hospital Wing?'

'What happened?' Harry blurted out before his mind could stop him. Malfoy looked confused. 'What?'

'You wrists,' Harry supplied. 'What happened to them?'

'Stinging Hex,' Malfoy muttered through gritted teeth. 'Madam Pomfrey was just about to heal it when you walked in.' Much to Harry's delight, he didn't say _eavesdropped_ – maybe the new, civil Malfoy had taken over again. But still, it was obvious that the old Malfoy, the one who snapped at people and insulted them, was still there.

Harry patiently waited for Madam Pomfrey to finish healing Malfoy's hands, letting his gaze wander through the room in the meantime. Not much had changed. The room was back to the clean hospital it used to be, including the white ceiling, which had been the first thing Harry saw after waking up, on too many occurrences to count them. And Harry knew every single detail of this room. All he had to do was close his eyes, and unasked for, the image of the room would appear in front of his eyes. Luckily, by now he'd halfway managed to get the image of this room filled with all the war casualties out of his head.

After Harry had left the Hospital Wing with a mended nose and a sip of painkiller potion for his jaw and nose, he decided to skip the rest of the DADA class for today. Hermione would scold him for this later, sure, but it wasn't like he'd be missing much, neither time-wise nor subject-wise. 'Mione was right, Bat-Bogey was no challenge at all. Not for DA-veterans, anyway. Heck, if necessary, _Harry_ could have applied for the job of a DADA teacher. He had spent his whole, goddamned screwed up _life_ fighting the Dark Arts! He was more than capable of defending himself, thank you very much. He knew the incantation of the hex by heart, he knew the inventor (Miranda Goshawk), and he was sure he knew the year of its invention as well, if he'd think about it for a moment. And yes, if he needed to, he could always ask Ginny – the Bat-Bogey was one of her specialities.

That didn't mean that he could skip homework, of course. Hermione would make sure he wouldn't.

For the umpteenth time that evening, Harry tried to focus on his Potions homework, but he just was too tired. Even Hermione had to understand that he couldn't write about the invention, brewing, and effects of the Alihotsy Draught if he was dog-tired. Maybe tomorrow. Unfortunately, ever since he'd lost the book of the Half-Blood Prince, Professor Slughorn's respect for Harry had rapidly decreased. And although he wasn't Snape, Slughorn had recently discovered Malfoy's admittedly exceeding abilities in Potions. Which meant that Harry no longer was his favourite. Of course, Harry didn't demand special treatment – he wasn't Malfoy – but he had enjoyed being the one favoured for a change.

Groaning, Harry stuffed his schoolbooks and the half feet of parchment he'd written on so far into his satchel and closed it. He would do it tomorrow, right? He certainly wasn't postponing this essay to the latest possible date since two days. Not at all.  
Okay, so that's exactly what he was doing.  
Maybe he could ask Hermione for help tomorrow. If he and Ron managed to look pitiful enough, they might be able to persuade their friend to write the essay for them. Especially Ron, right?

Tired as he was, Harry fell asleep pretty much the very second his face made contact with his pillow. He didn't even hear Neville step into the dorm one minute later. But as soon as he fell asleep, he remembered why he had felt like utter shit this morning.

_Hogwarts in ruins. Smoke rising from the burning leftovers of the Quidditch pitch. Roofs and walls ripped open, revealing the innards of the venerable castle. Giant holes gaping in the buildings, rubble and debris lying around basically everywhere. The battle has taken its toll._

_The inside is even worse. Places he used to know and love are in ruins. Books from the library, centuries old, and containing invaluable knowledge – ripped and destroyed, hit by curses, hexes, jinxes. Sacrificed for the greater good, piles of them used to provide cover or blown up as a distraction, bookshelves used to hide behind, or toppled over to fall onto unsuspecting enemies._

_The Room of Requirements, sanctuary to hundreds of students during hundreds of years – damaged beyond repair, by a mindless young adult with the mental abilities of of a dayfly. The Great Hall, place of gathering and communication, a place where speeches are delivered, feast celebrated, and deaths mourned – filled with shattered glass, splinters of broken wands, blood-soaked rags of what used to be school robes._

_The worst place is the Hospital Wing. Lines and lines of dead bodies. People fussing over in which order the dead shall be placed – by age, by house, by name? What does it matter? They are dead, nothing and nobody is going to change that, because nothing and nobody_ can _._

_Some of the dead have been cleared, the blood wiped off their bodies, making the wounds and injuries visible all the more. Cuts, holes, scratches… it is a terrible sight, what wizards can do to each other. Maybe the whole word would be better off if all wands would be broken, all books of charms be burned… it is understandable why the Muggles used to fear those who possessed powers beyond their understanding. Sometimes, the use people make if this powers is beyond his understanding, too._

_The dead stare at him, expressions blank, but eyes accusing, and he knows it is his fault. All of it is his fault, and has always been. He shouldn't have come here in the first place, he shouldn't have encouraged these people to rise against their oppressors, he shouldn't, shouldn't, shouldn't have. He leaves the room because he can't stand it anymore. He of all people, who is the cause of their deaths, should not be allowed to mourn them._

_He can see people frantically searching the ruins for relatives, friends, lovers. People they care about, people who care about them. Every now and then, a happy cry disturbs the deafening silence, when families are reunited, couples are reunited, friends are reunited. He hasn't got any of this. Who cares about him? All people who ever cared about him died protecting him – his parents, his godfather, his father's best friend. All of this battle was about protecting him, buying him time. The Slytherin brat was right, they should have turned him in when they had the opportunity to do so. It would have saved their lives. What's the point in dying for the greater good? He certainly is neither great nor good._

_And suddenly, as if reading his mind, people agree with him. They don't say a word, not yet, but he knows they will, sooner or later, if they have to endure his presence any more. People who are passing by, their robes classifying them as fellow students, their faces blurry and unrecognisable. He cannot see their eyes, his eyes failing him whenever he tries to focus on their faces, but he can feel the accusing glares, the silent question how he could allow this to happen, the looks blaming him for the losses of loved ones. He doesn't have an answer. He knows he shouldn't have let this happen._

_Somebody stands out of the crowd. The pale face, the grey eyes, the white-blond hair, the green insignia on the black and grey robes._ He _is watching from the sidelines. His eyes show no hint of accusation, and why would they?_ He _hasn't lost anyone._ He _owes him his life. But_ he _doesn't do anything to keep them from accusing him._ He _only watches and lets them do as they please._

 _The crowd is getting closer and closer, the silence deafening him. Their glares, still invisible but clearly there, are piercing his body, and he can almost_ feel _their eyes rip pieces out of him and reduce him to what is left of the ones they cared for. They are pressuring him, burying him under them, and he feels like suffocating._

_He knows he deserves it._


	4. The Morning After

'You really don't remember anything?' Ron asked, and Harry could only shake his head again. No, he didn't remember anything. According to Ron (and the rest of his dorm mates), he had bolted upright in the middle of the night, screaming bloody murder from the top of his lungs, panting, sweating, crying – a complete breakdown. Ron said they hadn't been able to calm Harry down or wake him up – he said Harry had just kept crying and crying, muttering unintelligible things, until he'd collapsed due to pure exhaustion sometime around four in the morning. Dean had suggested somebody should hug Harry or something like that, since this always worked with him and Seamus when they had nightmares, but no one was really close enough to Harry to sleep in one bed with him, not even Ron. Actually, _no one_ had ever slept in one bed with Harry – his parents had died too soon, the Dursley, well, let's not talk about them, and Ron wasn't exactly the type of guy to cuddle with his best mate. He wasn't half as touchy-feely as Dean and Seamus were, and honestly, neither was Harry. If anything, he felt guilty for keeping his comrades awake until dawn. _Two bloody hours_ , Harry thought. Which led to all the male eighth-year Gryffindors being severely sleep-deprived this day.

After asking the same question over and over again on their way to the Great Hall for breakfast, Ron finally gave up, leaving Harry utterly relieved, but also more than just a bit disturbed. What was it that he had dreamed about, which had apparently horrified him this much? Nightmares were part of Harry's life, and had always been since he'd become a part of this magical world, but he'd thought them being finally over after Voldemort's final defeat. Cheered too early, apparently.

Shoving these thoughts aside for the moment, Harry reached over the table to grab the strawberry jam, and began eating a slice of toast. As usual, he glanced across the hall towards the Slytherin table – old habits die hard – but Malfoy's place was unoccupied, the Slytherin nowhere to be seen. Shrugging it off, Harry continued to eat his toast – forgetting about the jam he'd fetched and absently eating half the toast without _anything_ on it before he noticed what he'd done.

When Harry reached for the jam jar the second time, he was distracted again, this time by Professor McGonagall, who announced that tryouts for the house teams would take place the next day. Harry had given this some thought before, and decided _not_ to apply again. He couldn't exactly tell _why_ – he didn't know it himself –he just didn't feel like it. Ron, on the other hand, had made it clear that he intended to take up his old position on the team again.

'But,' Professor McGonagall cut off the loud cheers, 'since the Quidditch pitch is still under reconstruction, I am afraid I have to announce that the first match cannot take place until next year.' Loud complaints sounded through the hall. 'I am sorry, but it is as it is. The reconstruction team has repaired the pitch itself, but the stadium isn't ready for visitors yet. Which is also why the teams will have to use their houses' bathrooms for the next few months.'

Harry finished his breakfast rather fast, hoping to get some time in the common room to finish the essay he'd not finished the other day. Potions was today's sixth period, and he'd better have three feet of parchment written until then, if he wanted to at least get an A in Potions. He no longer wanted to be an Auror, so he didn't have to reach an O in almost _every_ subject, but he'd recently thought about applying at St. Mungo's after school, and as a healer, he'd still need an O in Potions. Trust Harry to choose one of the jobs that required top-notch grades in the subject he liked the least.

To Harry's relief, Professor Slughorn was too busy gushing over Malfoy's five feet of parchment to notice that Harry's essay still lacked a few inches – he hadn't managed to finish it after breakfast, and Professor Flitwick didn't let them go early, so he had no time to add some finishing touches to it. It would have to suffice. Harry had decided he would rather be there in time than finish his essay and be too late. Though, as it seemed, he would have to endure some more Malfoy-praising, so he might as well have come later. And nobody could tell Harry that Malfoy wasn't enjoying the attention.

'—really have a knack for potions, Mr Malfoy…'  
Obviously, Harry didn't miss anything of importance.

'Well, then. Attention, please!' As soon as Professor Slughorn had made sure that he had everybody's attention (he didn't notice Seamus shuffling Exploding Snap cards under his table), he pointed his wand at the chalkboard, which then filled with text. 'After we have now covered the subject of the Alihotsy Draught more than enough, we will move on to a new topic. Today we will be focusing on the _Oculus Potion_. Can anybody tell me something about this potion? Yes, Mr Malfoy?'

'The Oculus Potion is a healing potion, sir. It is used to restore the eyesight of people, mostly victims of the _Conjunctivitis Curse_. It requires Wormwood, Mandrake, Unicorn horn, and crystalised water, and when brewed correctly, is of a deep orange shade.'

Slughorn seemed delighted. 'Excellent, Mr Malfoy! Take ten points for Slytherin.' He turned to the chalkboard. 'As Mr Malfoy explained, this potion is used to cure patients who have lost their eyesight, and is extensively used at St Mungo's. It isn't very hard to brew, but the instructions have to be followed to the letter, otherwise it may even worsen the symptoms.' He clapped his hands, and another set of paragraphs appeared on the chalkboard. 'If you would please copy this description of the potion. I will go round and answer any questions on the topic which might arise.'

As Harry dipped his quill into the ink, he caught a glimpse of Malfoy, scribbling on the parchment hastily, teeth gnawing on his lower lip as his brows furrowed in concentration. Out of the corner of his eye, Harry could see Ron frantically rummage through his bag, an automatic spell-check quill from WWW laying useless on his desk. Hermione, as usually, had her nose buried in a book, her parchment already filled with words. Letting his gaze wander, Harry noticed that Malfoy was done as well, and that he himself in fact was one of the few people still writing. Hastily, Harry returned his attention to the parchment in front of him.

_The Oculus Potion, a healing potion, was invented in the beginning of the 16thcentury by…_

'Harry, honestly, when was the last time you got some proper sleep?' Ginny demanded. 'Because if I'd have to hazard a guess, I'd say you didn't sleep at all last night, right?'

'Two hours,' Harry muttered under his breath, trying to cover the _D_ on his Potions essay with his school book. This was the third essay for which he'd received a _D_ , and he wasn't keen on Ginny learning of it. It was bad enough to suffer _Ron_ teasing him about how he'd managed an _A_.

'What was that?' Harry sighed. 'I said "Two hours", Ginny. If you would kindly leave me alone now, I have to finish this essay. Go bugger Ron.' Needless to say, it didn't work. Especially since Ron was nowhere to be seen, probably being at the library and being forced to study by Hermione. If only Harry had someone to force him study. But after last night's terror, he wasn't really awake and conscious enough to write about the side effects of the _Rano Potion_. He didn't even know what its effects were, or who invented it. He was fairly certain it had something to do with Poland – maybe a Polish wizard had invented it? Harry had no clue whatsoever.

'Are you even listening to me?' Harry startled when Ginny snapped her fingers under his nose. A slight flush crept into Harry's face at being caught by zoning out – or rather falling asleep.

'I said you are going to bed. _Now_. And don't you dare argue with me, Harry Potter.' Ginny's voice didn't leave room for opposition. Harry's body was craving for sleep, and so was Harry, but the annoying voice in his forehead, more commonly known as _rationality_ , reminded him that as soon as he fell asleep, the nightmares would return. And Harry _really_ didn't need that.

'Sure _mum_ ,' Harry scoffed before slowly dragging his feet towards the dorm. Maybe he could find something to keep him awake. If necessary, he'd study the Marauder's Map until dawn, and if he was lucky, he'd get two cups of coffee to make up for the lack of sleep before anyone noticed that he hadn't used his bed at all.

'And I'll tell Hermione to make sure you _do_ sleep.'

Dang. There went his plan. Right out of the window.

By the time Ron and Hermione stepped into the dorm, Hermione walking Ron to his bed and kissing him goodnight before letting go of him and head over to Harry's bed, the inhabitant of said bed was still awake. He'd tried to memorise his Magic History essay from last month, written a poem on Nearly Headless Nick which was longer than any essay Harry had ever written for any of his subjects, and tried to calculate the expenses for a new broom including a complete set of Quidditch robes in his head. To sum it up, he had done everything to keep himself from falling asleep.

Harry didn't even bother pretending to be asleep, Hermione had noticed his sleep deprivation after the third night a nightmare kept him from sleeping. Therefore, she didn't bother with small talk before getting straight to the point.

'You're supposed to be asleep, Harry.'

Harry shrugged wordlessly, leaving it to Hermione to figure the meaning out. It could have meant anything from _I know,_ over _what do I care_ , to _why do you care?_ Harry himself didn't know what he meant by it. Maybe all of them.

'It's the nightmares, right?' Another shrug of Harry's. What was he supposed to say to this? _Of course_ it was the nightmares. How was he supposed to sleep when it only meant to go through hours of terror, keep his dorm mates awake, and ultimately wake up completely exhausted? He could get to the 'exhausted' part without the nightmares, by simply refusing to sleep. Plenty of coffee whenever he needed some (courtesy of Hogwarts' house elves), and some potions he'd managed to smuggle out of the Potions classroom after brewing them had helped to reduce his sleeping to more or less two hours a night, which was usually few enough to avoid the nightmares, but of course not enough to satisfy his body's need for rest.

By now, Harry knew what the nightmares were about. Waking up with little memory of the dream several times, he had – on Hermione's advice – written everything down, and finally put the puzzle pieces together. He had, so far, refused to talk about it to anyone, because his friends would only try to talk him out of the guilty feelings. And Harry didn't need any comments on why he kept feeling responsible – he did so because he _was_ responsible, but he wouldn't be able to drill this through his friends' heads.

They had tried to help, of course they had. Hermione had tried a few spells which should keep nightmares away, but it hadn't worked – they had come anyway. She'd also brewed some Sleeping Draught, which should lead to dreamless sleep, but Harry had only felt exhausted afterwards, and they didn't have the ingredients to brew stronger sleeping potions.

Hermione's apprehensive look told him that she knew what was going through his head, and that she didn't like it. Well, sue him for having nightmares. It wasn't like Harry had chosen this. After an excessive staring contest, Hermione sighed in defeat. 'Goodnight, Harry.'

 _I highly doubt it_ , Harry thought.

As soon as the bell rung, everybody hurried out of the Transfigurations classroom, eager to escape into the fresh air of a Friday afternoon. It was weekend, finally, and no more transfiguring door locks into clockworks. Harry didn't get it anyway. But as he hastily stuffed his school book into his bag while walking towards the door, he noticed Professor McGonagall striding towards him, with an expression that bode nothing well.

'Mr Potter, I would like to talk to you for a second. Do you mind to follow me into my office?' She strode away before he had a chance to answer. Wondering what exactly it was the teacher wanted to talk to him about – unless it was his miserable Transfigurations performance as of lately – Harry hurried after Professor McGonagall.

'Have a biscuit, Mr Potter.' Harry took one. 'So, as you surely have noticed, your recent performances leave much to be desired, Mr Potter. Do you have any idea why this might be?' Professor McGonagall scrutinized Harry through her glasses. Feeling uncomfortable with the course this conversation took, Harry nodded.

'And what, Mr Potter, would this reason be?' the headmistress inquired.

'Nightmares, ma'am.' Silence. Harry decided to elaborate his statement further, interpreting the teacher's silence as request to keep talking. 'Really bad nightmares, Professor. Most times, they keep me awake for most of the night. Ron says he and the others usually wake up because I'm screaming my head off. And… I've somewhat avoided sleeping too much recently.'

The look Professor McGonagall gave him made it clear that she approved of this as much as Hermione did – not at all. 'How much exactly have you been sleeping the last week, Potter?'

Uncomfortable, Harry shifted on his feet. 'Eight hours?'

'Per day?' Harry shook his head, not meeting the teacher's eye. 'The whole week, Professor.'

 

_Two minutes and a rant about responsibility later…_

 

'I am very disappointed with you, Mr Potter. You should have told me earlier.'

'Sorry, Professor.'

'I recommend that you will go to Professor Slughorn and ask him to brew you a sleeping potion, Potter,' Professor McGonagall said. But Harry shook his head again. 'With all due respect, Professor, but I have tried some already, and they didn't work. And apart from that, don't stronger sleeping potions involve the danger to become addicted? I don't want to rely on drugs so I can sleep at night.'

Professor McGonagall arched an eyebrow – if it was at the fact he tried potions already, or the fact he refused her suggestion, he didn't know. 'Please describe your dreams, Mr Potter.'

And so Harry did. From the beginning, when he just dreamt of Hogwarts in ruins, the overwhelming guilt – luckily, Professor McGonagall didn't try to talk him out of this – the dead bodies, the images of those who searched for beloved ones under the rubble. Then the faceless students which stared at him accusingly, the feeling to be suffocated under a mass of bodies – sometimes all those who had died, sometimes those who had lost someone – and last but not least the cold stare of Draco Malfoy, who was always there to watch Harry's suffering from the sidelines. Malfoy's recurring appearance was what disturbed Harry the most, and more than once, he had suspected the Slytherin to be the cause of his nightmares.

'Do I understand you correctly, Mr Potter, that Mr Malfoy is a key element of those dreams?' the teacher inquired. Harry nodded. 'Yes, Professor.' Professor McGonagall send him a piercing glare. 'I hope you didn't get the idea that Mr Malfoy is at fault for these dreams?'

'Uh…'

The teacher sighed. 'I expect you to get yourself a sleeping potion from Horace –' she raised a hand to cut off Harry's protest, ' _until you have solved this problem_ , Mr Potter. It won't be of much use to anyone, save the _Daily Prophet_ 's gossip department, if you collapse in the middle of the Great Hall. Understood?' Gritting his teeth, Harry nodded, and turned towards the door. 'Oh, and Potter?'

'Yes, Professor?'

'As much as I dislike her, maybe you should pay Sybill a visit. She may not be the most… _capable_ member of the staff, but maybe a dream interpretation would help you.'

Harry left her office, determined _not_ to go to Professor Trelawney.


	5. The Drugs Do Work

'Oh, Harry! Come in, come in!' Slughorn sounded delighted, but his voice lacked the undertone of enthusiasm it had held back in sixth year. Harry guessed the head of the Slytherin house was still happy to have Harry as a part of his little 'collection', but without Harry's supposed brewing skills, he had probably lost most of his interest in Harry. Not that Harry minded.

'Minerva has already notified me of your little _indisposition_ ,' Slughorn said as he rummaged through his brewing cabinet, producing little bottles and vials along with little bags of ingredients. He kept talking about nightmares, every now and then adding an anecdote about one or another famous witch or wizard he had known had suffered from nightmares, but Harry was, if anything, listening only half-heartedly. Mostly, he kept silent and watched while the Potions master poured powders and liquids into the happily bubbling cauldron, every now and then asking Harry to stir the potion a few times, chip a piece of wormwood, or mash some beans with a name Harry couldn't even pronounce.

'—maybe you remember Gwenog Jones, I think I mentioned her once? Well, the fact of the matter is, she once told me—'

So far nothing important.

'Well, Mr Potter, here you go!' Slughorn said, presenting a flask of the draught to Harry. 'Three drops before you go to sleep, Harry, and the nightmares should vanish!' Harry reached for the flask, but Slughorn held it out of Harry's reach. 'Come to me if this one is empty, but remember, large doses have severe side effects.' He handed the flask to Harry. 'I expect nothing but responsible behaviour from you, Mr Potter.'

'Yes, Professor.'

Storing the little vial away in his pocket, Harry hurried back towards the Gryffindor tower, still musing about Slughorn's warning. He knew, of course, the side effects of overdosing on sleeping potions – it had been the subject of an essay a week before (unnecessary to mention, he had failed the essay with a _P_ grade). Aside from nasty things such as puking and fever, there were also the problems that one could easily get addicted to them, and last but not least the threat of a lethal overdose. Admittedly, one had to take _way_ too much for this to happen, but if the aforementioned wasn't enough, there were always the withdrawal symptoms if one had to discontinue them. Harry would have rather not been forced to this drastic measure.

But with three drops, as prescribed by Slughorn, nothing could go wrong, otherwise McGonagall wouldn't have sent him to the Potions teacher. And Harry surely didn't intend to overstep the border of three drops. He was guilt-stricken, sure, but not suicidal – although Harry suspected that his friends thought otherwise. They _knew_ how responsible he felt for every single victim of the war, and he was fairly certain that they were at least keeping their eyes open so they wouldn't miss any sign of depression he _might_ show. They thought he didn't see and hear their worried glances and whispers they exchanged behind his back. If they could, they would treat him like a fragile piece of glass, as if he could break and run amok any moment.

'So they gave you a sleeping potion?' Ron asked, doubt dripping from his voice. 'But we've already tried this –'

'Ron,' Hermione beat Harry to an answer, 'I'm sure Professor McGonagall knows what she's doing. Leave Harry alone, he'll go to bed now and take this potion, right Harry?'

'Uh…' Originally, Harry had planned to take a walk across the school's grounds before curfew, but Hermione's expression told him he better go to bed. Deciding that he was too tired to mess with his best friend, Harry sighed.. 'Right.'

Hermione crossed her arms, a triumphant smile on her face. 'You see?' Grabbing Ron's hand, she dragged him away, still muttering something under her breath which Harry didn't catch.

'I see you're finally working on your nightmare issues?' Harry jumped at the sound of Ginny's voice. Dang, Ron's sister had _really_ gotten the hang of sneaking up to people unheard.

'Apparently,' Harry responded, together with a nondescript shrug. While he was stuffing the school books which had previously lain on his bed into his trunk, he noticed that Ginny didn't leave. Harry spent some more seconds with unnecessary tasks such as rearranging the items on his bedside table, before he turned around and sent Ginny an annoyed frown. Her eyebrows rose in response. 'Aren't you supposed to take the potion?'

Harry groaned inwardly. So his so-called 'friends' didn't even trust him to take prescribed… _medicine_ , that was what it was – nowadays, but insisted on making sure he did so? Great friends they were. Under Ginny's scrutinizing looks, Harry uncapped the small vial and poured three drops into his mouth.

'Satisfied now?' He knew he was being childish, but seriously, he was eighteen, not five! He surely could take his medicine without a watch dog!

Ginny nodded. 'Goodnight, Harry.'

Already feeling the exhaustion overwhelming him, Harry rid himself of his clothes to slip into his pyjamas and then under his blankets. He sent a short 'night' towards Dean and Neville before he fell into a – hopefully dreamless – slumber for the first time in weeks.

He awoke after what felt like _minutes_ , but a quickly cast _Tempus_ spell revealed that it was actually past noon – way too late for breakfast. But, on the positive side, Harry felt more rested than ever before, and he couldn't remember any nightmare either. From what it looked like, he'd had the first night of proper sleep in slightly more than four weeks. Of course it was too early to draw any conclusions, but maybe, Harry allowed himself to hope, maybe this could be the solution – at least temporary, because he sure as hell wouldn't rely on these draughts for the rest of his life. He could only imagine the field day Rita Skeeter would have if she got word about the 'Boy Who Lived Twice' regularly consuming sleeping potions. Hell no.

Just as Harry had finished changing into his casual clothes – weekend equalled no school robes – Ron stepped into the dorm, involved in a conversation with Neville. They both looked up as Harry bid them good morning – good day, rather – and the relieved smile his best friend flashed Harry assured him that he had indeed hadn't had another dream.

Well, that surely was a good turn of events, Harry mused as he made his way towards the common room, considering to ask one of the house elves to bring him a slice of bread for breakfast.

Frustrated, Draco punched the wall until his knuckles bled. Cursing, he stuck the fist in his mouth to suck at the bleeding wounds. He hated it. He wasn't sure what _it_ referred to in this particular case – his dorm mates, students from the other houses, this school, or maybe his life in general. Whatever it was, he hated it.

He had kept his anger inside until the others had left the dorm, but as soon as he was alone, he had been unable to hold back. Weekends were the worst. During school days, there were things such as the occasional tackle from other students, entire groups stepping out of his way and murmuring insults – or, if they were more brave, openly yelling them at him – and teachers having to assign him to a partner because nobody wanted to voluntarily be partnered with Malfoy the Disgrace (Slytherin), Malfoy the Death Eater (Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw), or Malfoy the Traitor (every house). But weekends? To other people, it might mean relaxation, free time to spend with whatever pastime they chose.

Draco's fellow Slytherins' favourite pastime was 'let's torture Draco'. He'd experienced almost _everything_ , from mocking and insults, over every hex his former comrades could come up with (Draco hadn't known Goyle could remember this many incantations), to such _Muggle-ish_ methods such as simple, physical violence. Under different circumstances, Draco would have laughed about the thought of proud purebloods using the _Muggle_ way of fighting – fists and foots hitting whatever they could reach of Draco's body – but since he was the one playing the role of the victim, it wasn't exactly funny. Less than.

Which led to him punching the cold stone wall until he hardly felt the pain in his fist anymore. He wished it was Goyle's face, or maybe Pansy's. The situation of having to rely on his own – admittedly below-average – physical strength was new to Draco. There had always been Crabbe and Goyle to act as his arms and fists if he need them, but now, Goyle was Pansy's fist, because the girl didn't have the guts to ruin her perfectly painted fingernails by hitting him herself, and Crabbe was in no position to punch him. Because he was, well… dead.

Crabbe was dead, and Draco was alive, because Harry 'I am the chosen one' Potter had saved Draco's goddamned life. _Worthless life_ , he could hear his house mates say. They never grew tired of reminding him that they'd rather have him dead and buried than being disgraced by sleeping in the same room as he. More than once, he'd had half a mind to summon a sleeping bag and sleep in an empty hallway like a homeless Muggle, if it only meant getting rid of his classmates.

_You should get these knuckles treated_ , insisted the – rapidly shrinking – part of rationality in his mind. _Why should I_ , Draco wondered. _They'll bleed soon again._ He had already spent some hours in the library learning how to heal Stinging Hexes, and if things between him and the others stayed the (miserable) way they were, he'd get enough practice. The other students definitely were game for giving him enough wounds to practise with.

'Queen to B7! Checkmate, Harry!'

Groaning, Harry toppled over his King, admitting defeat. 'One day, I'll get the hang of it,' he assured Ron, ending another fruitless chess lesson with Ron. Harry liked Wizard's Chess, but he couldn't measure up to Ron, and honestly, no one really could. Even Hermione, whose intellect everybody thought should make her the ideal chess player, was at a loss to the infamous Weasley chess skills. Harry, for his part, had more fun playing against less skilled, hence more equal, players such as – well, everybody else.

Having to choose between hanging around the Gryffindor common room and die of boredom or lay on his bed and die of boredom, Harry remembered the book he'd borrowed from the library which was due tomorrow. He'd finished it yesterday, so he might as well return it to the Library right now. Heading towards the boys' dormitories, he was soon intercepted by Hermione. He brushed her question what he was doing off with a short 'going to the library', realising his mistakes too late when his best friend began gushing about how _wonderful_ it was that he'd become responsible and decided to study, and that she'd just grab her books and join him… Which led to a rather angry Harry sitting in the library while Hermione was happily rambling about their History of Magic homework, oblivious to Harry's foul mood.

'Uh, I just remembered, I still have to do this essay for DADA,' Harry excused himself, retreating into another part of the library. It wasn't a lie, he _had_ to write this essay, and since he could hardly escape the library while Ron's girlfriend was watching, he might as well do it now.

Cursing his decision to come here, Harry scanned the shelves for the book he was looking for. Quietly muttering the title of each book, he walked across the aisles, eyes fixated on the backs of the books—

'Ouch!'

—until he accidentally ran into—

'Malfoy?'

'Potter,' the other boy snarled as he got up from the floor. 'Graceful as ever I see.'

'I'm sorry.' The words had slipped out of Harry's mouth without much thinking – this being Malfoy or not, Harry had tackled him to the ground, right? Just as he'd expected, it earned him a humourless grin from Malfoy.

'Yeah, sure. Chang was also sorry when she tackled me – oh, wait, she wasn't!' Malfoy collected the books and parchment he'd dropped. 'Save your excuses, Potter.'

It took Harry a few seconds to process the meaning of Malfoy's words, but then—

'Are you implying that I have i _ntentionally_ pushed you?!' Harry bewilderedly asked, which earned him another of Malfoy's scowls.

'Don't pretend you didn't,' he forced through gritted teeth, obviously keeping his anger at bay.

'I did _not_ do this on purpose!' Harry exclaimed. 'Do you think I run around and tackle people to the ground because it's funny? I'm not the kind of person to do this, I'm not you! I'm –'

'on the "Light side", Potter? What a coincidence, so is the Ravenclaw prat, and yet _she_ didn't mind sending me to the ground. And you're nothing better than her.' He showed a – forced, Harry thought – grin. 'But you're right: You're not me. Now, if you would kindly get out of the way…', and without another word, he brushed past Harry and disappeared between the bookshelves, leaving Harry utterly confused.

Why the hell would Malfoy think he'd _intentionally_ bump into him? And what was this with Cho doing the same? Harry wasn't dumb, he knew that the majority of the students saw Malfoy as nothing but a traitor and Death Eater – the symbol on his forearm made it hard to deny – but he'd never thought of Malfoy being one who let other people shove him – more the other way around. Before, Crabbe and Goyle would, on Malfoy's command, do the tackling and shoving, but obviously, things had changed.

Harry frowned. He had – on condition that Malfoy hadn't lied – never thought of Cho as someone to harass people. The incident in the Hospital Wing weeks ago came to his mind – Malfoy had said somebody had been trying to get back at him.

Maybe Malfoy wasn't the only one who had changed, and some people had definitely not changed for the better.

'Oi, Harry!' Harry looked over his shoulder to see Ginny quickly catch up to him. 'We're having Quidditch practice, and Ron asked me to ask you if you wanted to watch. Hermione's already there.'

Since he had nothing else to do, Harry thought he might as well do as Ginny said, even more since he hadn't seen her fly since her appointment as captain of the Gryffindor Quidditch team. From what Harry knew, there hadn't been any Quidditch under the Carrow's rule, so this was going to be the first Quidditch session in two years.

As it turned out, Ron had grown a lot more self-confident. Obviously, he had won the tryouts for the job of a keeper for a reason, and it wasn't the nepotism some people made it out to be. Harry hadn't seen a Quidditch match since sixth year, and this was just training, but only then he realised how much this meant to him. Aside from the normality, the _triviality_ of a training session, without a war impending – watching his house mates zoom past him, trying to score a goal against Ron, was, as strange as it might sound, relaxing.

Letting his gaze wander through over the pitch and the handful of makeshift benches which had been set up – they could host maybe twenty people at maximum – Harry noticed his successor chasing after the Golden Snitch, a bit away from the other players. Harry didn't know the name of the new Gryffindor Seeker, but from what he could see, she was doing a pretty good job at catching the Snitch. She would probably have a hard time measuring up to the standards he'd set, Harry mused. He wasn't one to brag, but he knew how good he was, and he was afraid that compared to him, most students would have a hard time.

Up in the air, Harry heard Ginny yell a few commands, and the players descended to the ground of the stadium, unmounting their brooms and walking towards the castle, the few visitors following suit.

As he walked towards the castle, Harry sent a glance towards Hagrid's hut, and felt a stab of guilt. He really should visit his friend more often – in fact, he had, aside from lessons, not talked to the half-giant at all this year. A great friend he was. But somehow, the idea of visiting Hagrid seemed more like a… _chore_ to Harry; an inconvenient task, which he'd love to postpone as much as possible. Just like weekends seemed more like a bother now, actually. Harry couldn't remember a time when he had been this _bored_ in his free time. The years before, he had always had something to keep him busy, might it be a giant Basilisk running amok to worry about, the Trimagic Tournament, the DA, a Dark Lord on the loose, or himself on the run. His life hadn't been this relaxed since… forever, he decided.

And there they said that N.E.W.T.s were stressful.


	6. Do The Drugs Work?

'Today, we address the subject of Unforgivable curses.'

Defence Against the Dark Arts. What a laughing stock, Draco thought. Aside from the fact that he knew way more about the Dark Arts than _Professor_ Jones could ever teach them, he also didn't see how this was supposed to help them. For one thing, if one of the rogue Death Eaters out there decided to attack one of them, he would have countless hexes aside from Unforgivables, and seriously, the education in this subject – ridiculous.

First year? Theoretical nonsense on creatures which lived thousands of miles away. Useless.

Second year? A vain egomaniac, who ended up wiping his own memory. Pathetic.

Third year? A… _creature_ , who— _which_ looked like a homeless Muggle, and taught them about pathetic creatures which lived in swamps. As if Draco would ever hike through a swamp.

Fourth year? A mental ex-Auror, who disobeyed the school rules and turned Draco into a ferret, not to mention practised Unforgivables on the pupils. Insane.

Fifth year had been the first more or less sensible year so far – Professor Umbridge hadn't taught them anything useful, but at least she hadn't been a lunatic like her predecessors. Then, of course, sixth year – Dumbledore, the old fool, had finally recognised Severus' talent, and aside from being the most horrible year in Draco's life so far, it had also been the year in which he'd learned the most. And seventh year – well, he'd been too miserable then to pay any attention to the lessons.

'So, who of you can tell me which the three Unforgivables are?'

_Of course_ Granger had her hand in the air before the teacher had even finished the question. While she listed the curses – as if there were people who didn't know them – Draco allowed his mind to wander.

_Crucio_ had been a routine last year. _Hey, Draco, fetch me a bottle of Firewhiskey! What's taking you so long? Crucio! Hey, Draco, the Dark Lord wants this mess cleaned up. You're not done yet? Crucio! Hey, Draco, I'm bored and your father has lost the Dark Lord's favour, so he can't help you. Crucio!_ At the age of sixteen, Draco had been excited at the prospect of following in his father's footsteps and become a Death Eater. But then… the constant pressure. The knowledge that if he failed in this first, horrible task, his family would be punished for his failure. Severus' constant attempts to help him and thus snatch the reward away from Draco.

Then, one year later, living under the same roof as the rundown lot the Death Eaters were at the time. Draco believed in the purity of blood, but these people – there was nothing noble about them except their names. Barbarians, all of them. Aunt Bellatrix and her hysteric laugh whenever her cruelty got the better of her. Greyback, the _thing_ the Dark Lord made use of as a weapon. And always the Unforgivables.

And, of course, Potter. What in the world had kept him from identifying Potter – Draco had no idea. He'd recognised the brat, no matter what had happened to his face, but instead of simply saying, 'this is Potter,' he'd hesitated. He had, honestly, no idea why.

'So, who can tell me what the core arguments of Brutus Malfoy's speech against the classification of these curses as "Unforgivable" were?' Naturally, Grangers hand shot in the air, and involuntarily, so did Draco's. He knew this speech by heart – his father had read it to him often enough, referring to it as one of the countless examples when the noble Malfoy family had been looked down upon by half-bloods and Muggle-borns. But, of course, Professor Jones didn't bother picking Draco – no, she chose the Mudb—Granger instead. It was all Draco could do to keep up the indifferent expression. When the bell rung, he was the first one to leave the classroom.

Harry had long ago abandoned the Astronomy homework he was supposed to complete. The telescope stood useless on its tripod, the astral map lay on the floor, kept down by the weight of the telescope's case.

If he focused hard enough, he thought he could make out faces in the sky – Remus, Sirius, Dumbledore. Those whose advice he would need at the moment. Dumbledore would have some wise words for him, Remus would tell him that it was only natural to feel guilty, and perhaps have words of advice as well, and Sirius would assure him that he would be fine over time. That was how it would be if they were there. They wouldn't bugger him about imagining things, or try to talk sense into him. They would understand, Harry was sure.

This place alone was enough to make Harry relive memories. Dumbledore, knowing full well what would happen, had chosen to protect Harry rather than defend himself. Draco, panting, hands trembling, the point of his wand shaking as he stared wide-eyed at the man he was supposed to kill. In a way, Harry pitied the Slytherin. Almost made a murder at the age of sixteen, when other boys worried about girlfriends or driving lessons. And the breakdown Harry had witnessed had made it plainly obvious that Malfoy had been broken by the terrors he'd witnessed. In a way, Harry mused, the Slytherin was similar to Harry in this regard – no physical damage, but victims of this war nonetheless.

Harry couldn't help but end up thinking about the recent change in Malfoy's behaviour. Today, in DADA, Ron had made some clearly audible comments about Malfoy, such as suggesting they renamed the subject to 'Defense Against Malfoy', or snarky remarks about how Malfoy had probably practised the Crucio with his 'Death Eater' friends. That wasn't the worst, though. The Malfoy Harry once knew would have fought back, or at least sneered at Ron, or _anything_. But although the blonde had heard Ron, he hadn't even turned his eyes away from the school book. And then the incident in the library. Two or three years ago, Malfoy would have happily hexed Harry into the next month if he really thought Harry had deliberately tackled him. He would _not_ have settled for a scornful comment.

'Harry? Are you okay, mate?' At the door which led downwards stood Ron, his face dimly lit by the light from downstairs. 'Uh, 'Mione send me to make sure you were okay. She's worried, you know.'

Trying very hard to hide his frustration, Harry stood up, collecting his belongings and storing his telescope away. 'Sure. Just lost track of time, that's all.' He sent Ron one of the fake smiles he'd learned to perfect over the past weeks. 'Let's go, then. Wouldn't want your girlfriend to worry, now, would we?'

Visibly relieved, Ron followed Harry, oblivious to the act his best mate was playing.

… _grows only in a high-temperature environment, and is an ingredient to various potions. It lives off unfortunate insects, which are attracted by the scent of its flower, and lured into the plant's alimentary canal.'_

Deciding that this would have to suffice for Professor Sprout's demands, Draco stuffed away his quill before furling the parchment and storing it away in his bag. Glancing at the clock, he decided that it was too early to go to bed, and wondered what he would do for the next hours. His house mates never went to bed before ten, which meant that Draco would have to stay up until at least half past ten if he wanted to make sure they were all sound asleep when he went to bed.

Sighing, Draco reached for the first book he could find, grimacing as he found it to be a Muggle fiction book. Unfortunately, there weren't many magic fiction authors – a deficiency which ought to be eradicated, in Draco's opinion. He'd heard of a Muggle invention called 'film' once, which supposedly were moving pictures telling stories. To Draco, this sounded like normal portraits, but apparently, Muggles needed an additional device for this.

Nonetheless, midnight found Draco sunk in the Muggle book. Draco found the story highly unrealistic – for example, it painted a completely wrong picture of magic creatures. Trolls were _not_ made out of stone, and not every Dwarf wore a beard. And why would only witches use flying brooms? Not to mention the preposterous storyline of the book – an ex-trickster turned good and saving the citizens of his city from a greedy businessman. Gryphon dung.

One hour after midnight, he put the book away, deciding that by now, his house mates definitely were asleep.

Turned out, they were not.

Apparently, Theo Nott had somehow smuggled Firewhiskey into the school, as the eighth-year Slytherins were happily drinking themselves into oblivion. Currently, most of them were in the state of Not-Much-Longer-Peaceful-Drunks, on the verge to Very-Quarrelsome-Drunks. While Goyle was a sniggering mess on his bed, laughing over a corny joke one of the others had made, Nott himself obviously had enough of his brain cells left to recognise Draco when the latter one made his way to his bed, and Draco was fairly certain that Edward Jugson and Zachary Thorley had also spotted him.

'Uh, look, our favourite traitor wastes some of his valuable time upon his unworthy comrades. Hey, traitor scum, what'cha think you're doing here?'

'Betrayed anyone lately? Your father, maybe? Right, he's already in Azkaban! Maybe one of your friends then? Oh, I forgot – you don't have any!'

'Yo, Malfoy, why don't you go to McGonga – McGonal – the headmistress and turn us in? Let's see how well it serves you!'

Draco gritted his teeth as we walked past the drunken students, skilfully avoiding the ones trying to trip him up. Why his classmates had been allowed to return to this school, he had no idea. Oh, sure, they hadn't been convicted of any crimes, but the names of their fathers should have been enough indication.

Well, he was one to talk in this regard.

Tuning out the spiteful comments of the people which were supposed to be the substitute of a family, Draco awkwardly climbed into his bed, settling for changing behind drawn curtains. After he'd changed into his pyjamas, and cast several Silencing and Protecting Charms to his bed, he curled himself up under the blankets, finally allowing the tears he'd gathered over the day to flow.

At least, no one could hear him weep behind the charmed curtains.

For some reason, this night, the potion took some time to kick in. At 1 in the morning, Harry still lay awake, gazing at the sky outside the window. He hadn't had much time to think that day, something he was catching up on now. Surprisingly, the most important thing on his mind was Draco Malfoy, and his strange behaviour since the beginning of the school year.

Memorising all facts again, Harry tried to put the puzzle pieces together. Malfoy looked rather tired as of lately. He also was obviously on the outs with the rest of the Slytherin house, and got injured regularly. From what Harry could tell, he was doing fairly well in classes, but rarely ever rose his hand, and even more rarely was picked by the teachers to answer a question – the only exception being Potions. And, as their encounter in the library a week ago had proven, he believed that everyone was out to get him – a belief which may prove to be justified.

So, all these facts led to which conclusion? That Malfoy was pretending and secretly plotting something? A few years ago, Harry would have been the first to agree (alright – second, since Ron would have been first) and pull out the Marauder's Map to track every movement of Malfoy. But now? Harry would rather believe in a sudden change of heart – which actually seemed plausible – than in a new master plan of Malfoy's.

Groaning, Harry turned around in bed, freezing as he heard Ron shuffle beneath his covers before the breathing of his best friend returned to normal. Glancing at the Muggle alarm clock at his bedside drawer (mechanic, of course – an electronic one would have gone bonkers anywhere near Hogwarts), he let his head fall to his pillow – 2 a.m.

It seemed as if this was going to be a rather restless night.

Harry woke up feeling like he hadn't slept at all, but at least, the potion had done its work in the end – he had fallen asleep before the sun rose, that much was for sure, and he hadn't had any nightmares, so that was a plus. But still, this couldn't have been any more than maybe five hours of sleep. Stifling a yawn, Harry dragged himself towards the bathroom, hoping that a quick shower would help himself to fully wake up.

But as he sat down at his usual spot at the Gryffindor table, he could tell by the worried expression on Hermione's face that the ten minutes he'd spent under the hot water hadn't help conceal his lack of sleep at all. Although she didn't comment on it, he could guess her questions, which he postponed by mouthing 'LATER'. He didn't need his sleep habits gone on about in front of hundreds of students.

Now he only had to come up with an explanation for later.

Over the course of the day, his tiredness subsided, leaving only a numb hollowness behind. While he was almost falling asleep during Herbology, he managed to stay awake through Charms – thanks to a quick nap in History of Magic during third period. He was even paying attention during double Potions – nothing unusual normally, but a surprise considering the tired state he had found himself in this morning.

Only problem: He didn't get the fourth line of the recipe of today's potion. It was something about chopping the ingredients in a certain way, but Harry didn't get the hang of it, and, judging by her puzzled expression, neither did Hermione. Unnecessary to mention, Ron didn't get it as well. Meanwhile, one table to Harry's right, Malfoy was happily hacking at the whatever-their-name-was-beans, half of them already swimming in the blubbering cauldron. Looked like at least one student was going to earn himself an 'O' for today's period.

Following a hunch, Harry leant towards the Slytherin and hissed, 'Malfoy!'

'What is it, Potter,' came the hissed response, both the Slytherin's voice and stance indifferent and hard to read.

'I need your help,' Harry forced through gritted teeth, and seeing Malfoy arch one eyebrow in amusement didn't help improve his mood. 'Excuse me?'

'I said I. Need. Your. Help.'

'And why is that so?'

If Harry kept gritting his teeth like that, he'd lose them by the end of the period. 'You're really going to make me say this, aren't you?' When the lack of a response confirmed his suspicions, he tried to steady his breathing and force out the words the other boy wanted to hear. 'Fine. I need your help, because I don't get this stuff, and you're better with this.'

Malfoy smirked, though a satisfied smirk rather than his old, gleeful smirk. 'What was the last part?'

He'd better pass his N.E.W.T.s with an 'O++' in Potions, Harry decided, because nothing else would justify this ordeal. 'You. Are better. Than me, for Merlin's sake. Will you help me now, or not?'

The grin on Malfoy's face – how Harry had wanted to wipe this stupid grin off the Slytherin's face moments before – grew into an almost genuine smile. 'See, Potter? Wasn't that hard.' The blonde abandoned his cauldron and stepped behind Harry, grabbing the Gryffindor's wrists to guide his hands. Harry tensed at first – under different circumstances, he would have _never, never ever_ let Draco Malfoy stand this close behind him – but he relaxed when he saw pale hands move his own hand, guiding the knife across the beans.

'You see?' Malfoy whispered from behind, his breath tickling Harry's neck. 'You need to slice them in a certain angle to get as much out of them as possible. Like _this_ ,' the hand which held Harry's knife raked across the bean. Since Malfoy was slightly taller than Harry, his head was more or less resting in the crook of the Gryffindor's neck.

Malfoy let go of Harry's hands. 'Try it yourself.' Harry found that he could repeat the movement which the other boy had shown him quite easily, and even managed to mutter a 'thanks' towards Malfoy when the blonde returned to his own cauldron.

One row further towards the front of the classroom, Hermione cursed under her breath and jabbed her knife into the table when she missed the small fruit in front of her. Unable to suppress his amusement at the thought that he, Harry, had – with Malfoy's help – managed to achieve something Hermione hadn't, Harry leant forward to tap on his best friend's shoulder. 'Trouble with line four, too?'

Without tearing her gaze away from the textbook, Hermione nodded. Grinning at the thought of the frown which was most likely gracing his friend's features right now, Harry tapped her on the shoulder again. 'Ask Malfoy.'

Well, _now_ she turned around to face Harry. 'Could you repeat that?'

Harry shrugged. 'Ask Malfoy. He's helped me to get these,' he gestured towards his own table, 'chopped.' Hermione's face read _incredulity_ , in bold, capital letters. 'What? You just have to ask him.'

'Harry,' there it was, Hermione's earnest voice, 'are you sure you are alright? Do you feel dizzy or something?'

'Of course not!' Harry responded, barely keeping his voice quiet. 'Why would I?'

'Because you've just told me that you've given Malfoy a knife –' '—more like let him guide my hands which held a knife –' '—and actually _asked_ him for help?'

Harry shrugged again. 'As I said, I just had to ask.'

Hermione obviously wasn't convinced that Harry hadn't gone mental, but she pressed her lips together in a gesture which, as Harry knew, signalled (temporary) defeat. 'Fine. But I'm not going to ask Malfoy for help.'

'Good, because I wouldn't grant it to you, Granger,' came Malfoy's voice from Harry's right. He rose an eyebrow – was that all facial expression he could muster? – at Harry and then said, addressing Hermione, 'bet unlike Potter here, _you_ wouldn't even admit that you need help, would you?'

Well, Harry thought, Hermione's scowl was definitely worth it, because at the end of the period, Harry was pretty sure he had seen Slughorn write an 'O' onto the label of the flask which held the potion Harry had brewed.

'I owe you, Malfoy,' Harry whispered as he walked past the other boy – something he would have never thought he'd say. Although, at the sight of Malfoy's grin, he thought that maybe admitting that he had a debt to Malfoy wasn't the most intelligent thing he'd ever done.

'You so do, Potter.'


	7. The Drugs Don't Work

'Now, as your N.E.W.T.s are approaching, we shall turn to a more _sophisticated_ subject,' Professor McGonagall said.

Stacked on her table were maybe three dozen cotton reels. With a flick of her wand, she moved one of them onto the closest student's desk.

'Today, you will learn to turn these reels into something far more complicated,' McGonagall continued. 'Please watch.' She twisted her wand between her fingers, and in spoke an incantation.

' _Mutatio figura!'_

Where a moment before the cotton reel had lain, now stood a little figurine – maybe four inches tall, and a perfect miniature of the deceased Professor Dumbledore. After a moment, the puppet began to walk, pacing forth and back on the table, and every now and then stopping to raise an admonitory finger.

'This spell is basically very easy, but requires quite an amount of imagination. You will have to depict the person whom you'll want the figurine to embody _in minute detail_. If you can imagine them vividly enough, you can also make these figurines perform any activity you want.' While she was speaking, she made a small movement of her wand towards the puppet, and suddenly, the miniature Dumbledore began to dance a Twist.

'Now,' the pile of cotton reels began distributing itself to the students, 'try it yourself, but don't be discouraged if you don't succeed immediately. Magic which fills objects with life usually is the hardest. Nonetheless, I would be very disappointed if at the end of the period, none of you would have mastered the spell.'

Soon, the classroom was filled with _'Mutatio figura'_ -incantations. Granger, of course, was the fastest, her cotton reel began to resemble a figurine already when Weasley's had only just managed to change its colour. Potter was fumbling with his wand, waving it at the reel in front of him in a completely wrong way. Sneering, Draco rolled up his sleeves before trying to mirror the gesture Professor McGonagall had performed. His first attempts were fruitless, of course, but after the fourth or something time, the reel's shape began to shift, slowly growing something which vaguely resembled limbs.

_Imagination_ , Draco told himself. He had to imagine how the figure should look like. Since he couldn't think of any person he'd like the puppet to stand for, he settled for his own appearance. He should know it well enough for a first try.

Closing his eyes, Draco began to draw a mental picture of himself. He had grown since last year, and was probably one of the tallest in his year by now. Last time he'd checked, his skin was the same pale complexion as always, only graced with a few more scars than before. His white-blond hair was still smoothly falling down and framing his face. His eyes were the same grey colour they'd always been. Regarding clothes, he wore his black school robes with the Slytherin emblem attached to them. Draco made sure to go over every detail in his head before trying to keep the whole picture in mind as he swung his wand again, intonation the spell and focusing on the person he wanted the object to become.

As soon as the last syllable had left his mouth, he watched the cotton reel in front of him transform into what looked more or less similar to him. He clearly needed to work on this, because at the moment, the object looked more like a sloppy piece of work made out of wood, but since he still had more than half the double period to perfect his work, Draco was fairly confident.

' _Mutatio figura!'_

Across the room, he could see Potter clenching his fists and gnawing on his bottom lip, before the Boy Who Lived swung his wand again; this time transforming the reel into something which, as far as Draco could see through the room, seemed to at least have the correct number of limbs.

Sighing – for no particular reason – Draco returned his attention to the figurine in front of him. After a few more tries, he had gotten the puppet's features right, and when the end of the period was approaching, he had even managed to add a microscopic Slytherin emblem to the figure's robes. Just because he felt like it, he moved his wand a little and conjured a small Death Eater mask for the figure. It probably wasn't the best thing to do, but honestly, that was what people still mistook him for, right?

Draco looked up at the feeling of someone watching him, and caught Weasley glaring at him. Since he was better than doing something as vulgar as flipping the arrogant prat the finger, Draco instead summoned another cotton reel from McGonagall's desk and quickly turned it into a miniature Potter, satisfied to see Weasley's glare intensify. At some point, he had gotten the hang of this spell, and a muttered incantation was all it took him to have both puppets turn towards Weasley and make a definitely rude gesture towards him. Served him right.

Since he had no interest in arguing with Weasley – not today, at least –, Draco made sure to leave the classroom before Potter and his clique did, silently cursing whoever had planned the eight-years timetable. There weren't many eight-years – too many dead students –, therefore, the classes were rather small. Which led to most lessons being attended by at least two houses. Which led to Draco having to spend way too many hours with Gryffindors.

This bloody sucked.

This evening, Harry had decided earlier today, he was going to spend some time with his friends. He was thinking too much of other things recently, and too less of the people who'd kept him company through everything the past seven years had thrown at him. Nonetheless, he had refused Hermione's offer to study for the next Herbology period as kindly as he could. Right now, she was sitting in a chair by the fireplace, a giant book on her lap, and was watching him and Ron play Exploding Snap. It was, Harry mused, probably the closest thing to 'bonding time' he'd get with her.

But what was at the front of his mind at the moment was that maybe they shouldn't have chosen _Weasley's Whizard Wheezes' Self-Shuffling Exploding Snap Cards™_ in the 'Bloody Wankers Edition' (said Ron), respectively the 'Spoilsports Edition' (said George), respectively the 'Public Enemies Edition' (said the WWW catalogue). Aside from the fact that those exploded a lot more often than the deck Harry was used to, these showed Dark Wizards instead of Magical Creatures. And while Harry loved nothing more than to tap two matching images of Dolohov or Greyback with his wand and see the cards blow up in Ron's face, he couldn't help but feel a little guilty whenever one of the cards showed Malfoy's face (Jr, not Sr, mind you).

A small explosion in front of him made Harry forget his musings about acquitted Death Eaters, and he quickly jabbed his wand at two cards with an image of Rudolphus Lestrange on them, grinning in satisfaction as the cards exploded and smeared Ron's face with ashes – a make-up usually only sported by Seamus Finnigan.

When Harry walked towards the boys' dormitories, he was actually quite satisfied with the evening. Ron had kicked his ass at Wizard's Chess to get back at Harry for kicking Ron's at Exploding Snap, Dean and Seamus had been curled up on a sofa – Dean testing Seamus' knowledge for the next DADA exam –, Neville had tended to his newest pet plant, and Hermione had watched Harry and Ron while reading a tome with the unlikely title ' _A treatise on the various variations of the Mandrake plant, and their use in potions over the course of the 16th century'_ , by _Peter_ _Pot-Pruner_. So, all in all, the outcome could be counted as a success.

Although, Harry thought with twinge of anger, it would be rather nice if this evening wouldn't have been necessary. It was an act he was playing, and its title was 'I am fine'. He knew that his friends – with enough problems of their own, such as the loss of Ron's brother Fred or the absence of Hermione's parents – wished nothing more but to see him 'normal' again. He was pretending to give them what they wanted, with actions such as this supposedly carefree evening, but having to act as if he was okay took its toll on Harry. It wasn't the support he'd hoped for.

When had been the last time when Harry had done something for the sole purpose of having fun? He hadn't touched his broom this year, whenever he'd spent too much time alone Ron and Hermione had begun to worry about him, and he'd been a bit too occupied with his sleeping issues recently to worry about things such as free time. Maybe he should look for a hobby. Collect Chocolate Frog cards or something similar.

Why Harry still hurried to get to History of Magic in time, he had no idea. It wasn't as though Professor Binns would notice whether he was there punctually, belatedly, or not at all. The man – ghost, whatever – could lecture a class of three dozen sleeping students about the Giant Wars for two bloody periods without batting an undead eye. Harry wouldn't have chosen the subject in the first place if had he not found himself with no idea as to which other elective subject to choose.

Harry's steps echoed through the empty hallway. He'd taken a shortcut through a wing of the castle which wasn't in use again yet, and except for him, there probably wasn't a living soul around. Or a dead soul, for that matter.

'—you see, we don't like you. Honestly, I don't think _anybody_ likes you, wouldn't you agree?'

The words had come from a classroom whose door was open only a crack, and okay, maybe there _was_ somebody around. And judging by their words, they weren't nice. And a part of Harry – the one which got him in trouble, he suspected – demanded that Harry stepped into the room and found out _who_ was bullying whom in there. It would be the right thing to do. But then again, he was going to get into trouble, as usual, and other people's lives were none of his—

'Lost our ability to speak, didn't we, Draco?'

—business. So this was 'Draco' in there? 'Draco', as in, 'Malfoy'?

Within a second, Harry's previous doubts were gone and forgotten. This was his chance to find out what was wrong with Malfoy, and he was not going to let that slip. Quietly, he pressed himself against the wall next to the door, trying to breathe as silently as possible. He should probably have known that eavesdropping wasn't okay, but for Merlin's sake, this was _Malfoy_ , and two years ago, that would have been reason enough. Now, this was apparently Malfoy being cornered by somebody, and that should justify some eavesdropping, right?

'So, Draco what do you think we should do, hm? You see, we don't want you here. Maybe we could… _convince_ you to leave?' That was another voice than the first.

'Still not going to talk, _Draco_ ,' that was the first voice again. ' _Diffindo!_ ' Harry flinched when he hard a muffled yelp from inside the classroom.

'I hope,' the second person said in a low, threatening voice, 'that you've learned your lesson, Malfoy. We don't want traitors like you around, so you better _stay away from us!_ Throw yourself off the Astronomy Tower or something like that. _Diffindo!_ '

Harry stiffened until he would have made a board pale when the door flew fully open, and two students left the room. Luckily, they were facing away from Harry, and didn't look back over their shoulders, so they didn't notice him. Not that he wouldn't have been able to defend himself, but that would have definitely counted as 'trouble'.

Once the bullies were gone, Harry emerged from his hiding spot behind the door and stepped into the classroom. As expected, there was Malfoy, sitting on the edge of a table.

Unlike Harry expected, Malfoy was crying. No, sobbing. Like, his whole upper body shook with sobs, tear streaks on his face, and tears freely falling into his lap. The sleeves of his robes were torn, and Harry could see blood dripping from Malfoy's left forearm, right were the Dark Mark was visible through the holes in the sleeve.

Harry must've made some kind of noise, because Malfoy's head _snapped_ up, and teary, bloodshot eyes stared at Harry. If glares could kill, he would have been dead this very second.

'Malfoy.'  
'Sod off, Potter.'

Ignoring Malfoy's words, Harry pointed at Malfoy's bloody forearms. 'Who did this?' Malfoy quickly cast a charm to fix his torn sleeves, covering the nasty wounds with fabric. 'Who were those guys?' Harry inquired further. 'Do they do this regularly?'

Malfoy sighed in exasperation. 'You still owe me a favour, right, Potter?' Thrown off track by Malfoy's response, Harry nodded warily.

'Well, that's my repayment: Leave me alone. I'm sure my problems aren't worth your valuable Saviour-time anyway. Find another damsel in distress to satisfy your hero-complex.' With that, he pushed past Harry – effectively tackling him to the ground –, and walked out of the room.

'Fine. I'll leave you alone, Malfoy,' Harry told the blank wall. 'But I'll still find out what's going on.' He sighed. 'And I still owe you a favour,' he added as an afterthought.

Fortunately – Harry was rather fond of his sanity, thank you very much –, the wall didn't respond.

Ron, Harry decided as he gritted his teeth, was a tactless douche sometimes.

Of course, his best friend couldn't possibly know about the disturbing encounter with Malfoy earlier that day – Harry had wisely chosen not to inform his friends of this, lest they rant about his supposed 'obsession' with Malfoy again –, but still, he had no reason to pick on Malfoy on any occasion there was. Well, Harry had done so, too, in their sixth year for example, but _he_ had been right then, hadn't he? And the way Ron behaved, you would think _he_ was obsessed with Malfoy.

Right now, Ron stood in the Gryffindor common room. He was telling a story about his encounter with the Slytherin's team captain earlier, during which he had informed the sixth-year how _gloriously_ Gryffindor would 'kick their sorry asses' during the next game – followed by the tale of a _heroic_ Ronald Weasley avoiding being hexed into the next year by said Slytherin. From his chair, Harry could see Hermione roll her eyes at her boyfriend's behaviour, but that didn't wipe the smug grin off Ron's face. He enjoyed the rapt attention of a bunch of younger Gryffindors far too much to be bothered by things such as the fact that he had intentionally provoked the other student.

'—and seriously, their seeker is rubbish, and that's what I told him. Well,' he took a sip of what looked suspiciously like butterbeer, 'at least he's not Malfoy. The bloody git had to have his daddy _buy_ him a place on the team.' He sniggered. 'Should've seen his face when 'Mione told him he had _bought_ his position.'

Enough was enough, Harry decided. Tossing aside the newspaper – he'd been staring at the same page for the past fifteen minutes –, Harry stood up from his armchair by the fireplace and approached the small group that was Ron's audience. _Bet they only listen 'cause they think he's some kind of hero_ , Harry thought. _Just like when I say something. Nobody would care if we weren't their bloody war heroes._

'—wonder what the git's doing these days,' Ron was saying. 'Probably up to something, as usual. Beware, guys,' he raised a finger, 'never trust a Slytherin.'

'Ron,' Harry said, 'you should go to bed. And stop picking on Malfoy.'  
Ron frowned. 'Come again?'

'I said,' Harry repeated, 'stop picking on Malfoy.' He gestured towards the – now quickly dispersing – crowd of second- and third-years. 'What do you think you're doing? Turning them against Slytherins instead of letting them form their own opinions?' He sighed angrily. 'Leave Malfoy alone. He's been an asshole, I know, but in case you haven't noticed, he's changed.' Slowly, Harry's voice was becoming louder. 'Have you seen Malfoy provoke anyone this year? Heard him call anyone "mudblood" yet? No, because he doesn't do this anymore!' He turned to Hermione, who raised her eyebrows at him. 'Mione, say something! Shouldn't you be the first one to preach inter-house unity?'

'Well,' Hermione cautiously began, 'there was a reason they sent the Slytherins out of the castle during the battle, right, Harry?' When Harry frowned, she hurried to add, 'I admit, Malfoy isn't as bad as he used to be, but still… he is a Death Eater, Harry. As are his parents, and the parents of many of his house mates. And remember, Pansy wanted to surrender you to Voldemort.'

Angrily, Harry stomped his feet against the floor. 'So what? He was forced! What would _you_ do if someone held your family – _or loved ones_ ,' he added with a glance at Ron, 'at wand point and threatened to kill them if you didn't do what they wanted? It's not like Malfoy got a choice!' He caught his breath and tried to lower the volume of his voice. 'Merlin's pants, I testified for him on his trial! Shouldn't this be enough for you? All this crap about me being the "Saviour" should be good for something, but if even my friends don't believe a word I say –'

'Harry,' Ron slowly said, 'are you _defending_ Malfoy?'

'No!' Harry snapped. 'Fine, yes, I am,' he added after a moment. 'So what? Do you think I saved his life just so you can pick on him whenever you feel like it?'

'Harry,' Hermione said, 'saving Malfoy was surely noble of you –'

' _Noble_ ,' Harry spat. 'That's what I'm supposed to be, right? _Noble_. Well, you should try _noble_ too, some time. Maybe you could begin with giving Malfoy a second chance.' A new thought occurred to him. 'McGonagall trusts Malfoy, otherwise she wouldn't have let him come back here, right? Won't you listen to her?'

'Maybe you should go to sleep,' Ron suggested. 'You're tired. We can talk about this later, when you're not this stressed.'

'That's it,' Harry huffed. 'You're right, I'll go to bed. We can talk if you see reason.' That said, he spun on his heel and stomped off towards the dorms.

But, for obvious reasons, he couldn't sleep. The fight kept bothering him. Right, he'd never thought he'd defend Draco Malfoy, of all people, but then again, he'd never thought he'd see Malfoy of all people being harassed by other Slytherin's. _Maybe_ , the unhelpful voice in his head supplied, _you had to see that he has problems, too, like everybody else. You always had a thing for helping people in danger, right?_

Harry told the voice to shut up. It sounded an awful lot like Hermione.

He had taken the usual three drops of his sleeping draught, but the potion failed to work. It made him even more tired, and drowsy, but he just couldn't fall asleep. He heard Ron step into the dormitory, together with Dean and Seamus, and he pretended to be asleep when Ron passed by his bed. He could see all of them slip under their blankets and bid each other goodnight, before the sound of a handful of people breathing slowly filled the room.

Harry was still awake by the time Seamus began to cry in his sleep, and he didn't fall asleep after Seamus woke up and quietly slipped into Dean's bed either. Dean half-consciously wrapped an arm around his best friend, and Seamus soon fell asleep, leaving Harry the only one awake again.

A quick charm told Harry that it was well past two in the morning, and still he couldn't sleep. He felt a bit like he was sleepwalking – too tired to be fully awake, but definitely not asleep.

The vial with the sleeping draught glistened temptingly in the moonlight. Harry was definitely not knowledgeable in Potions, but he figured that after roughly six hours, it _should_ be safe to take another drop, right? If he didn't fall asleep soon, he'd be overly tired in the morning. And when Slughorn had said three drops, he'd surely left enough space to take one more drop without reaching a dangerous dose, right? And it wasn't like he intended to do this regularly.

He should most likely not even _consider_ this, Harry thought.  
Then he stifled another yawn, and reached for the phial anyway.

As soon as he had poured one drop into his mouth, he felt the tiredness become stronger, and he had put the bottle away and laid down for no longer than ten seconds that his eyes fell shut.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've made up the spell used in this chapter with the help of a Latin dictionary – I hope it sounds authentic enough.


	8. Overdose

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long wait! I got stuck at the beginning of the chapter for a few weeks, but once I got over this problem, I couldn't stop writing. Which is the reason why this chapter is over 5k words! Wow! Some time yesterday evening, realisation hit me that this story will soon reach 30,000 words! A few months ago, I was proud if I managed to write 1k words per chapter, and now this! Of course, everybody who comments, follows, or just reads the story is a huge motivation!
> 
> And yeah, I couldn't resist the temptation to include another one of my favourite pairings at the end ;)

Harry was utterly convinced that he had gone mad. There was no other explanation as to why he was watching himself pour five drops of the potion on a spoon, and then swallowing them. Five drops. Almost twice the dose he'd been prescribed. They left an unpleasant taste in his mouth that made him want to throw up, although Harry wasn't sure whether it was the potion or his bad conscience.

It had been two weeks ago that he had first taken four drops. At the time, he had assured himself that it would be only this one time, and that he wouldn't do it regularly. But the next night, he had barely slept two hours, and the night after that night, he hadn't slept well either. After a few days, he had taken four drops again, convincing himself again that a fourth drop wouldn't kill him. From then, it had become something appallingly regular. He had made sure that none of his friends noticed anything, even going as far as purposefully taking three drops in front of his friends, as he was supposed to do, and taking the fourth when he was sure everybody was asleep. He acted as though he was some drug addict.

Well, addicted he surely was. Harry hated to admit this, he loathed himself for acknowledging the fact, but when he had tried to go back to three drops a few days ago, he had lain awake all night, sweating like he had a fever. The next day, four drops had been barely enough to make him fall asleep. The day after that day, he had been forced to take five for the first time, and now he had done it again.

He had no idea how this was going to end. Five drops, what next? Sooner or later, he knew, he'd have to ask for help. And the worse he allowed this addiction to become, the harder it would be. When would it be too much? Six drops? Seven? The only things keeping him from running to Slughorn or McGonagall were his pride, and the irrational hope that he'd be able to stop this himself. It was obvious he wouldn't be able to do this.

These thoughts, however, quickly left Harry's when the potion kicked in, making him fall asleep within moments.

' _I got this one for asking her how much Muggle blood she and her brother have got.'_

' _Michael Corner went and got caught releasing a first-year they'd chained up, and they tortured him pretty badly. That scared people off.'_

' _We're supposed to practice the Cruciatus Curse on people who've earned detentions.'_

' _Your efforts are futile. You cannot fight me.'_

_They're looking at him. He knows it. Their faces are a blur, but he can feel their stares. And they are blaming him for the year they've suffered while he was gone. He should have stood by them. He wants to apologise, but the words don't seem to leave his mouth. The people surround him, closing in, making him panic. Across the crowd, he can spot a mop of white-blond hair, but he can't see what expression the person it belongs to is showing. He wants to reach out to them, but the faceless crowds block his way._

_They hate him._

Harry woke up to the sun shining through the windows of the dorm, and with a terrible headache. He had only once been really pissed – after the final battle, he'd had a house-elf bring him a bottle of Firewhiskey –, and this felt exactly like a hangover, except for the fact that he hadn't had any alcohol the day before. His temples were pounding, and his skull felt as though it was vibrating. He folded back the covers to get up and get himself a glass of water, but he couldn't even walk two steps before his legs buckled. Harry's knees hadn't even hit the floor when he already felt the bile rise in his throat, together with the panic.

Harry's body shook until his stomach was empty. Just the stench made Harry want to throw up again. He felt the urgent need to reach for his wand, clear this mess, and wash himself until the smell was gone. He was still trembling from the fit he'd just had, a shaky hand feeling for his bedside stand, when the door to the dormitory swung open.

'Merlin's!—'

The person – Ron, if Harry had recognised the voice correctly – ran up to Harry. A quick _'Scourgify!'_ later, the vomit was gone, leaving only the disgusting smell behind. Strong arms gripped Harry's shoulders and pulled him to his feet. Legs still wobbly, Harry turned around to look into Ron's worried face. His best friend quickly conjured a tissue and passed it to Harry, who weakly wiped his mouth clean.

'Mate, you alright? Have you eaten something bad, or—' Harry shook his head and managed to choke out a, 'Nothing', before his legs gave in again, sending him towards the ground once more. Ron caught him before he fell, but Harry could barely focus on anything beyond the throbbing in his temples. He could faintly hear Ron yelling something – probably for help –, but he drifted into unconsciousness too quickly to make out any words.

'I am very disappointed, Mr Potter. Very disappointed. I, and I think Horace would agree with me, would have expected a more responsible behaviour from you. You should have come to me or Horace when you noticed that the potion lost its effects, but not, under no circumstances should you have taken more than the prescribed dose!'

'I know, Professor.'

Harry didn't need Professor McGonagall's monologue to know that what he had been doing was the wrong thing. He'd had it coming for him, and now he lay in the Hospital Wing, with Madam Pomfrey and Professor McGonagall disapprovingly glaring at him.

_Withdrawal_. Harry dreaded what the word meant, but Madam Pomfrey didn't show any mercy. Instead, she explained the consequences of Harry's behaviour in minute detail. The first days would be the worst, she said. He would have to spend the next week in the infirmary while his body would cope with the lack of the addictive potion, and even during the time when he'd be allowed to attend classes again, Professor McGonagall and Professor Slughorn would personally search his belongings on a daily basis – to make sure that he wouldn't secretly get himself Sleeping Draught again. It was a humiliating prospect.

Right now, Harry didn't even have the power to pale at this idea. He had spent the past hour alternating between vomiting and passing out, and he felt like his throat was burning with leftover bile. He hadn't seen Hermione yet – Madam Pomfrey had sent Ron back to the common room as soon as he had brought Harry to the Hospital Wing –, but he could already picture her reaction. She would be disappointed as well. Harry could only hope that Professor McGonagall would try and keep this from the rest of the student body. The last thing he need was a _Prophet_ headline like, _'The Boy Who Lived – enslaved by drugs?'_ Rita Skeeter would have a field day.

Madam Pomfrey kept talking, but Harry had stopped listening. Despite having slept less than two hours before, he could already feel his exhausted body urging him to close his eyes, and drift into a world without problems…

…and with nightmares. As soon as he had closed his eyes, he desperately wished for them to open again. For what felt like hours, Harry dozed off and woke up, bathed in sweat. The light outside the windows changed from pink to bright to red to dark, Harry didn't really notice. As soon as he felt his eyes fall shut, he woke up again, limbs shivering, his stomach clenching, his heart beating way too fast. There were moments when he felt like suffocating, then again, the air seemed to grow cold, and burn his lungs with coldness. Tears stung in his eyes, and if there would have been any other patients, he surely would have woken them, as Harry was sure that he was crying out in pain. Sometime around morning – almost an entire day after he had emptied his stomach in the Gryffindor common room –, he fell asleep due to pure exhaustion.

Draco silently cursed his shaky hands. He had managed to break his wrist _and_ his ankle once again – without another student involved this time, but by tripping over his Transfigurations book –, and therefore had had to heal it with his wand in his left hand. But instead of healing it, he had managed to complicate the fractures further, to the point that he was forced to – once again – request Madam Pomfrey's help. By now, the nurse was probably used to his regular visits in the infirmary, but that didn't lessen the humiliation of constantly requiring her to heal his injuries.

As expected, Draco received a disapproving look – although he guessed that this time, the nurse's disappointment was directed at his poor attempt to fix his bones on his own, rather than at his constant refusal to tell her who regularly hexed him. Draco didn't expect her to believe his explanation – especially since he had claimed to have tripped before, when actually Benny Anderson from Hufflepuff had pushed him from behind –, but he didn't care, did he?

'I am afraid that you will have to stay the night, Mr Malfoy,' the mediwitch said while she produced an all too familiar bottle from a cabinet. 'Usually, fractures are easy to heal, but with your botched up healing spell involved, I'll have to re-grow the bone in your ankle. Fortunately, you wrist does not require this procedure, as it is rather unpleasant.' She gestured towards the numerous empty beds. 'Make yourself at home. I'll send a house-elf to get your pyjamas in the meantime.'

Draco was about to protest – a house-elf, an inferior creature, should dig through his belongings? –, but he bit his tongue to keep his mouth shut. Now was not the time to express his beliefs, not if he wanted to be seen as someone else than a miniature version of his father. Judging by her expression, Madam Pomfrey knew what he had been about to say anyway.

When Draco approached the nearest bed, he noticed the figure lying in a bed a few metres away. A closer look revealed that it was Potter. How the Saviour himself had once again managed to land himself in the infirmary, Draco had no idea. While he hadn't talked to Potter since the conversation he mentally referred to as the _incident_ , he hadn't failed to notice that Potter hadn't attended classes for the past two days. Given the worried looks and whispers the Weasel and Granger constantly exchanged, Draco could have concluded that Potter had gotten into trouble once again. Hopefully not by 'investigating' Draco's problems, as he would prefer not to get into trouble for supposedly manipulating the Boy Who Lived.

Draco was jolted out of his thoughts when he heard Madam Pomfrey arrive. She wordlessly handed him a fresh set of pyjamas, obviously fetched from his trunk in the dormitories, and gestured for him to climb into the hospital bed. While he crawled under the covers, she poured some of the potion into a cup. Draco had forgotten the name of the draught, but he vividly remembered its disgusting taste. He had been forced to take some of it to mend his injuries before, and the liquid still tasted as bad as he remembered it.

His brain urged Draco to ask the nurse about the cause of Potter's presence, but he kept his mouth shut. Asking questions, especially those concerning the Golden Boy, would only get him into trouble, and Potter's case was probably confidential anyway.

Draco wasn't really tired, but the eerie silence and the decreasing light from outside had him asleep within a relatively short timespan anyway. He didn't dream – he rarely did nowadays, unlike most veterans –, but the unfamiliar hospital bed made sure that he still felt rather exhausted when he woke to desperate screaming in the middle of the night.

For a few moments, Draco tried to tune out the heart-wrenching cries, but even burying his head in his pillow didn't help against the sounds of despair coming from the bed next to his. Annoyed, Draco reached for his wand in order to cast a silencing charm around his bed, but froze when yet another cry rang through the empty hospital. Draco worked hard to keep an indifferent façade these days, but he couldn't ignore the – if only tiny – spark of pity at the sound of Potter's screams.

Heaving an annoyed huff at his own soft-heartedness, Draco folded back the covers and limped towards Potter's bed. Any annoyance he might have harboured dispersed when he caught sight of Potter tossing and turning in his bed. The Saviour was a sobbing mess, sweat beading on his forehead, limbs twitching, and tears flowing out under closed eyelids. One of Potter's hands was forming a fist, clenching and unclenching, while Potter muttered something which Draco eventually recognised as 'I'm sorry' over and over.

Slowly, Draco stretched out his hand. When his fingers touched Potter's hand, the other student's hand closed around Draco's, clinging to his hand for dear life. Draco had no idea _what_ it was that caused these nightly terrors, but he assumed it had to do with the war. Most people's nightmares had. Trapping Draco's hand in his grip, Potter kept repeating apologies over and over again, but at least ceased his screams.

Acting on its own, Draco's other hand found its way to Potter's face, carefully stroking the black strands out of Potter's face. The blond used his sleeve to wipe the sweat off the Gryffindor's forehead, and was surprised to find the Boy Who Lived relaxing when Draco's fingers stroked through the unruly black hair. The smaller male's breathing slowed down to a more regular and less ragged pace, and while Potter was still holding on to Draco's hand like a lifeline, the tears slowly stopped flowing.

Satisfied to have calmed Potter down – by this, he had basically done a good deed! –, Draco tried to untangle his fingers from Potter's. To his surprise, though, the other student tensed, and frantically felt for Draco's hand, trapping the Slytherin's pale fingers between the Saviour's calloused hands.

Seeing as he apparently wouldn't get back to his bed any time soon, Draco stepped back and removed his hand from Potter's hair for a moment to fetch a nearby chair. It took a good minute for Draco to get somewhat comfortable in the chair, but eventually, he managed to doze off, still holding Potter's hand, his head resting against the metal frame of the Gryffindor's bed.

_He can feel their hateful glares, but something is missing. There used to be a present which used to stand out of the mass, sending especially distasteful looks his way, but he can't seem to find it. Instead, there's someone new. He can't see them, but he can feel them. They stand behind him, stroking through his hair and holding his hand. He doesn't know who they are, but they send an unspoken promise of protection his way._

_One time, they retract their fingers, and he feels around until he can wrap his fingers around their slender hand again. He doesn't know who they are, but they don't leave him. He's not alone._

When Harry awoke the next morning – day three of his stay in the Hospital Wing –, he felt more rested than during the past two days. Don't get him wrong, he still felt as though his legs would fail him were he stupid enough to leave the bed, but somehow, he didn't feel as exhausted – emotionally-wise – as he used to. He reached for his glasses, put them on, and took a look around.

The next thing he noticed was that Draco Malfoy was asleep in a chair next to his bed.

Within an instant, Harry's thoughts were racing. What was going on? He hadn't seen Malfoy in the Hospital Wing the last time he had been awake. Maybe the other boy had come here some time after dinner the day before, when Harry had been asleep, but if so, why was Malfoy sitting next to him, and not in one of the other beds? A year ago, Harry wouldn't have hesitated to assume that Malfoy was up to something, but given their interactions this year, he wasn't so sure anymore. The revelations about Malfoy being harassed still made Harry's blood boil with anger.

'You _do_ know that staring makes people uncomfortable, Potter?'

Malfoy's voice – surprisingly lacking its usual venom – jolted Harry back into reality. He hadn't noticed that he'd been staring at the blond Slytherin while lost in thoughts about Malfoy. Much to his embarrassment, Harry could feel his face heating up in a blush. Crap. Now he'd made a fool out of himself in front of Malfoy. Hopefully, he hadn't drooled or something equally mortifying. He quickly stuttered an apology and frantically scanned his surroundings for a quick escape. Maybe he could excuse himself by claiming that he had to talk to Madam Pomfrey… Without hesitation, Harry folded back the covers and swung his legs over the edge of the bed.

He hadn't come far when his legs failed him. Before his face made contact with the floor, however, pale arms wrapped around his torso, effectively keeping him from falling. Malfoy led him back to his bed, and Harry was surprised by his former enemy's strength when he helped Harry to climb back into his bed. Even more so when the expected snide remark never came.

'Should I call Madam Pomfrey?'

Harry shook his head, doing his best to will away the blush. Not only he had been caught staring at Malfoy, but he had almost fainted in front of him. It was unlikely, given Malfoy's recent change of heart, but he'd better be prepared for new jokes on himself. Exhausted, Harry let his head fall back into the pillow.

'Do you get these nightmares regularly?' Harry's head whipped around at the sound of Malfoy's words. _What—how did Malfoy—_ 'I – I have no idea what you're talking about,' Harry stammered. The blond only rolled his eyes in response.

'Could've fooled me, Potter. For your information, I woke up to you screaming blue murder.' The usual sneer returned to his face. 'But of course I am not worthy enough for The Saviour Himself to talk with, so I guess I'll just leave you alone.'

'Wait!' Harry cried out, flinching at the desperate tone of his voice. Malfoy froze mid-step, then slowly turned around.

Harry sighed. ' 'bout two months, give or take a week,' he said. 'Most of the time, I haven't slept more than one hour per night.'

Malfoy seemed a bit taken aback at Harry's honesty, but he quickly replaced the surprised expression with a thoughtful frown. He opened his mouth and began, 'Have you tried,' followed by a list of anti-nightmare-spells or -potions, but each time, Harry could only shake his head – he had tried all of them already, without success. The look of disappointment that flashed across the Slytherin's features reminded Harry of the expression Hermione wore when she couldn't solve a problem, and he wondered when he had begun to compare his arch-enemy to his best friend.

However, Malfoy quickly restored his usual, blank expression and turned towards Madam Pomfrey's office. While Malfoy spoke to the school nurse, Harry used the opportunity to change into his usual clothes – he would probably have to spend the rest of the day in bed, or sitting in a chair at best, but he could at least try not to look like a patient tied to his bed. Harry itched to just go and _walk_ , but given that his limbs were still shaking as soon as he tried as much as stand on his own feet, he would only end up breaking his bones during the attempt.

Some time during his wallowing in self-pity, he noticed Malfoy return. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the Slytherin grab his clothes and disappear behind the curtains of an unoccupied bed to change. Saw him emerge from them, pyjamas in his hand, clothed in the usual school robes, and making his way to the door.

'Malfoy?'

For the second time that day, Malfoy stopped dead in his tracks and turned around. He merely raised an eyebrow at Harry, encouraging him to say whatever he wanted to say.

'Uh, I just realised I never thanked you –'

'What for, Potter?'

'The Manor, remember? I mean, you recognised me, I know that, but for whatever reason you didn't tell them. I've been meaning to thank you since I returned your wand,' that had been the most awkward ten minutes of Harry's life, both he and Malfoy dancing around each other, exchanging pleasantries none of them meant, 'but I guess it never seemed fit, okay? So, um, yeah… thank you.'

Malfoy's smile seemed fake, and it didn't go further than to the corners of his mouth. 'And you pulled me out of the flames when I had just tried to turn you in anyway, so I guess we're even. Anything else the matter?' He didn't give Harry the time to respond. 'I'll take my leave, then.'

Watching McGonagall and Slughorn rummage through his belongings was beyond humiliating. Dean, Seamus, and Neville had probably noticed that Harry had taken potions recently, but they had been decent enough not to ask any questions. And while Harry could rely on his house mates not to spread rumours, he couldn't ignore their questioning looks every time the two teachers searched Harry's trunk.

He had been discharged from the Hospital Wing the week before, and from then, he'd had to bear through this disgracing procedure _every bloody evening_. He still slept like shit, if he slept at all, he still felt exhausted more soon, and on top of that, he had a shit load of homework to catch up on. Every night, Harry had to clench his hands into fists, and bite onto his pillow to muffle the sobs which escaped his shaking torso. He rarely ever slept before two in the morning, and woke up at least one hour before the rest of the dorm. He felt like utter crap, to sum it up.

Eager to escape the curious looks from the other Gryffindor, and to get away from the undignified scene in front of him, Harry grabbed his Potions book, a self-inking quill, and a piece of parchment, and left the dorms. He mumbled something about 'gotta study' to Hermione, ignored her warning not to over-exhaust himself, and made his way to the library. Since he had missed one week, he'd had a hard time catching up on Potions the past few days, and right now, he had to write four feet of parchment about a memory-manipulating potion.

When he arrived, the library was mostly empty. The time remaining until curfew was cut short, and only a handful of students were still around. One of the Ravenclaw Beaters, whose name Harry couldn't remember, slept with a book in her lap; in an armchair by the window, Harry saw a slumped figure reading a newspaper; and as he walked past the aisles, he caught a glimpse of two Hufflepuffs snogging enthusiastically. Why they chose the library, Harry had no idea. Madam Pince was probably going to get those two detention if she found them.

Seating himself by a table, Harry opened his book and tried to focus on the words on the page. Brewing the potion in question was a rather complicated procedure, but fortunately, the students only had to write an essay about the draught. Which turned out to be hard enough, as Harry repeatedly failed to understand _how_ the potion was supposed to modify the memory of those who drank it. He'd already written the part on the brewing, plus a short history of its invention, but the essay was due the next day, and curfew was getting closer and closer.

Exasperated, Harry shut the book closed with a loud THUD!, earning himself a disapproving glare from Madam Pince, before the librarian returned her attention to the book in front of her. Letting his gaze wander around the room, Harry saw the girl from Ravenclaw stuff her book into a bag and stumble out of the library, trying to stifle a yawn. At the opposite side of the room, the person occupying the armchair put away their newspaper, revealing a mop of white-blond hair—

—which belonged to Draco Malfoy. A crazy thought crossing his mind, Harry pushed back his chair and strode over to where Malfoy was sitting. The other boy paid him no attention, until Harry cleared his throat as loud as he dared in Madam Pince's presence. Sighing, Malfoy lowered the book he had picked up instead of the newspaper.

'What is it, Potter?'

Unsure how to phrase his request, Harry shuffled his feet for a moment, refusing to look at Malfoy directly. 'Er, I had some problems with my homework, I mean, I've missed a week, and I don't really get a part of the assignment, so I thought –'

Malfoy snorted. 'Oh, Harry Potter _thought_. Somebody alert the press.' The fake laughter ended abruptly. 'And what does this have to do with me?'

Harry doubted he'd ever felt more self-conscious before. Standing in front of Malfoy and admitting defeat, _pleading_ for his nemesis to help him, it wasn't something Harry was keen on. Yet this was the second time already that he'd had to ask Malfoy for help.

'Well, I kinda hoped you could explain some stuff to me?'

'And I would do this because? Here's a hint: "I am Harry Potter" isn't enough.'

Harry bit back a groan. Malfoy just _had_ to make it complicated, didn't he? The prat was _so_ enjoying this. 'Just admitting that you're better won't work this time, right?' He knew the answer already. He wouldn't get Malfoy to help him with the same trick twice. 'Uh, I could help you with this bully problem of yours?'

Within moments, the blond's face darkened. He tossed his book away in favour of jumping up from his chair and press Harry against the closest bookshelf. Malfoy's eyes, sparkling with hatred, were inches away from Harry's.

'Shout it to the world, why don't you? For the last time, Potter,' the taller boy hissed, 'there _is no problem_ , and if there was one, I surely wouldn't want _your_ help. Understood?'

After Harry managed to nod, Malfoy let go of him and sat back in his chair. 'Good. Now, if you'd be so kind and just piss off…'

Anger flared up in Harry. He only meant well when he offered Malfoy to help, why couldn't the damn git see it? And he fucking needed Malfoy's help. If he failed his Potions class, then he could bury the idea to become a healer, because Saviour or not, St Mungo's wouldn't let him near their patients if he wasn't qualified for the job.

He must've said the last part out loud, because Malfoy gave him a look of genuine surprise, mixed with amusement, when he said, 'You want to be a healer, Potter? I thought you'd go for Auror – you know, run around, blow things up, catch evil wizards like me?'

Harry groaned in frustration. 'One, you aren't evil. Two, what's wrong with healer?'

Malfoy shrugged. 'Nothing.' Abandoning his book and armchair, he stood up and took a step forward. 'Alright, what was it that you didn't understand about the essay?'

Confused by the sudden change, but determined to grasp his chance, Harry led Malfoy to the table where he'd left his books. Malfoy, of course, made a comment about his untidy scrawl, and claimed that everything Harry had written so far was 'poor', but sat down to explain the mysteries of memory potions to Harry nonetheless.

'—you see, the roots are the part which makes the recipient lose their memory. But since it's a memory _-modifying_ potion, it also contains _these_ , which stimulate certain brain areas to make sure that the drinker's subconsciousness produces false memories in order to fill the gaps in the victim's memory.'

Harry let his head fall to the table with a groan. 'Can you explain it in English, please?'

Malfoy sighed and buried his head in his hands. 'Imagine this, Potter: You go to a party, you drink too much, and the next morning, you wake up in a stranger's bed – naked. Well, that's not the part you should imagine, but if you would be in this situation, you would of course try to imagine what has happened the evening before, right? You would think of different scenarios which _might_ have led to the aforementioned situation. That's exactly what this potion does. It tells the recipient's brain, _hey, what could possibly have happened while I was out cold_ , only that unlike in the scenario I described, the victim doesn't notice what's going on, it only sees the false memory it's subconsciousness produced.'

Harry slowly nodded, trying to keep his eyes from falling shut. ' 'kay.' He fought a yawn, and collected parchment, book, and quill. 'I'll try to write it down in the dorms. I think the library closes now, so we better get going.'

Malfoy opened his mouth to respond, but was interrupted when they heard a shriek from where the books on Quidditch stood. Seconds later, Madam Pince emerged from the aisles, dragging two students – who Harry recognised as Ernie McMillan and Justin Finch-Fletchley – by their ears. The look on the librarian's face made Harry want to curl into a ball and hide.

'You two,' the old lady growled as she strode towards the door, 'are now going to explain to the Headmistress why _exactly_ you thought it would be a good idea to do _inappropriate_ things in _my_ library.'

'We were just kissing!' Ernie yelled, face dark crimson, but it only served to upset Madam Pince even further.

'That's what they always say. Had I come a moment later, I would have found you two doing – _fornicating_ next to the bookshelves! Not even James Potter ever dared to defile this library, and I will make sure that you won't either.'

A choked sound next to him caught Harry's attention, and he turned his head to find that Malfoy was desperately trying to suppress his laughter, tears rolling down the Slytherin's cheeks as he clutched his stomach. Harry had never seen Malfoy smiling genuinely, and now the boy almost choked on is own laughter at the sight of the librarian scolding two teenagers for kissing. Wonders never ceased to exist, Harry mused.

'And you two! Shouldn't you be in your dormitories already?'

Malfoy didn't stop chuckling until they parted ways outside the library.


	9. Back to Normality

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry and Draco keep studying together and Harry is still lacking sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bloody fuck, this was a hard one. Took me around two months to write. Anyway, here it is! Not quite as long as the last chapter, but I thought I'd publish this before you had to wait any longer ;)
> 
> — Hashtag

'I'll have to copy your essay for DADA,' Malfoy said when Harry approached what had soon become 'their' spot in the library.

Confused, Harry looked up at the blond Slytherin. So far, their studying sessions had mostly gone by either with Malfoy tutoring Harry, or in silence – except for the occasional 'do you have a…,' followed by the request for a piece of parchment or a spare quill.

They had, after the first, coincidental run-ins, continued to meet for studying – by an unspoken agreement, always at the same time and place. This had been going on for almost two weeks by now, and even in his only half-awake state – and average of two hours' sleep tended to have this effect on people –, Harry could picture Ron and Hermione's reaction all too vividly, were they ever to learn that he voluntarily spent time with Malfoy – on a regular basis even!

But in all the time they had spent in the library during the past two weeks, it had – if anything – always been Harry asking Malfoy for help. Thanks to the Slytherin's tuition, Harry had managed to not only catch up on what he'd missed, but also for once he had understood more than just two words of Slughorn's explanations during the last few Potions lessons. For this, he was probably more than a bit indebted to Malfoy – a thought that ought to startle him, if he would have been fully awake.

And now Malfoy asked – demanded, rather – Harry to let him copy his DADA homework.

'But…,' was all that escaped Harry's lips, and even considering his lack of sleep (at least he had slept at all last night), it was a pathetic answer.

'I mean, sure," he added once his brain had processed Malfoy's request, "but – why?' Malfoy always slipped his homework into his bag as soon as Professor Jones returned it, but Harry had been under the impression that the blond Slytherin got satisfying results. Malfoy wasn't stupid, that much Harry knew. Surely the Slytherin's essay on advanced duelling techniques couldn't be worse than the few paragraphs Harry had scribbled down between dinner and curfew? After all, the spells in question could be practised easily. All it took were two students with duelling experience.

But to his dismay, Harry received no answer. Instead, Malfoy began copying Harry's essay as soon as the Gryffindor had handed it over.

'It'll look suspicious if we both hand in the same essay,' Harry tried again. His opposite only shrugged. 'Perhaps I'll at least get an "E" for "Excellent Handwriting",' Malfoy responded without taking his eyes off Harry's text.

'Or a "T" for "Tricking",' Harry shot back, too tired to think of a better pun, but pleased to see the corners of Malfoy's mouth twitch upwards. 'Maybe even a "D" for "Duplicate",' he added, seeing his goal fulfilled when the other wizard held back a grin.

Seeing as Malfoy still refused to tell why he couldn't write the essay himself, Harry gave up – for now – and focused on his own homework (an essay on carnivorous plants for Herbology). It wasn't until halfway through the five feet of parchment Professor Sprout had demanded that Malfoy spoke up again.

'None of my house mates would want to practice with a "traitor", would they?'

Confused and tired as he was, it took Harry a few seconds to understand the meaning behind Malfoy's words. Once the pieces clicked into place, however—

'What do you mean nobody would want to practice with you?' Lowering the volume of his voice before he drew the attention of Madam Pince, Harry continued, 'Not only they're _bullying_ you, but they keep you from studying? They could ruin your future with this! How sick is that?'

He knew he'd gone too far when he saw Malfoy tense.

'First of all, _Potter_ , I am not. Being. Bullied. I am completely fine, thank you very much. As for the rest of your words, thank you for rubbing it in again. Of course, in Saint Potter's world, nobody even _thinks_ of such things.' He tossed Harry's parchment over the table. 'Thanks for letting me borrow this.'

Determined not to let the blond Slytherin get away, Harry stood up, blocking Malfoy's path.

'Like hell you're fine,' he protested. He knew that the other boy tried to hide them, but he could see the remnants of poorly healed wounds on Malfoy's forearms even as they were talking. Following the Gryffindor's gaze, Malfoy quickly rolled down his sleeves to cover them.

Harry tried again. 'Look, if you would just tell me who's doing this –' '—then you could ride to my rescue and solve my problems without asking me whether I want you to do so? Thank you, but no. Not that there were any problems to fix.' The expression on Malfoy's pale face turned stony. 'If that was all, I'd like to get back to my house's dorm.' With that, he brushed past Harry and out of the library.

Bloody annoying Potter with his bloody annoying prying. Couldn't he already give up? Draco thought he'd made it more than clear that he wasn't a damsel in distress, waiting to be saved by Potter. He could deal with his own problems by himself – which meant, in his current situation, to live through it until he could leave this damned place behind.

Malfoy men did not show weakness, and Malfoy men never required somebody else's help – a lesson Draco's father had made sure Draco remembered. Malfoy men – or women, they weren't any less dangerous – could forge alliances, but they never _relied_ on anybody. They had a plan B in case their allies failed them, and they made sure never to reveal to an ally how much they needed them. Peasants had to know that they were exchangeable.

And Malfoy men were not subject to bullying, under no circumstances. Malfoy men might bully – but never get their own hands dirty! –, but the idea that an heir of the Malfoy family might be in the situation to be unable to defend himself against harassment – unthinkable.

Draco's father was gone, locked away into Azkaban, and never to return, but Draco's upbringing was still as present as ever. From the day he'd learned to walk, he'd been taught never to drop his mask, never to show emotions – unless to show servants just how much their failure had upset him, so they learned to fear him.

Potter and Granger had, of course, managed to make his façade crack too many times to count, making his blood boil every time a teacher chose them over Draco, but other than this, he liked to think that he had managed quite well.

And now that it didn't matter, because his father wouldn't come back, these lessons Lucius had taught him were what Draco clung to. It was, in a way, the only constant he had left. His family might have lost their influence and reputation, but he could still keep his distanced demeanour up.

Not that it could help him much, Draco thought as he entered the Slytherin's dorm. That day had been fairly decent so far – only a few shoves from his dorm mates, all Slytherins from his year teaming up not to let any seat for him, and a Disarming Spell that had barely missed Draco. Could have been worse. But _of course_ Potter had to go and bloody ruin Draco's day by reminding him of what he could neither change nor forget.

Stupid Gryffindor git.

_They call him their Saviour. The Boy Who Lived. And now their hero has failed them. He has failed them, and they'll find out just how weak he is. He couldn't protect them. The crowd is staring at him, wordlessly asking how he could allow so much death and destruction, why he didn't end it sooner. Demanding to know where he was while they fought for their lives. The crowd will be his prosecutor and his judge._

_Every single face is trained on him. He can't recognise the people, but he knows that their expression shows resentment and contempt. And they are right, because he couldn't save what they lost, couldn't protect whom they loved. He deserves their hatred._

_But somebody stands behind him, silently assuring him that he has done all he could. He can't see them, but their mere presence assures him that somebody cares. Somebody who forgives him when they should hate him._

Harry woke up feeling like he hadn't slept at all. Groaning, he opened one eye – only to close it at the brightness of the sunlight in the Gryffindor dormitories.

He hadn't slept well the night before – he never did, but it had been especially bad this night. He hadn't managed to fall asleep until sunrise, and even then his sleep had been disturbed by bad dreams. His dreams had slightly improved recently, but they were still bad enough to have Harry bolt upright in the morning in cold sweat.

This night's nightmare hadn't been as bad – Harry only remembered bits and pieces of it, but as in most of his dreams lately, there had been the feeling of something or -body shielding him from the worst terror. Harry couldn't exactly place it – whether it was a thing or a person, something familiar or not, he never remembered. When he'd first remembered it, in the Hospital Wing, he'd thought somebody had held his hand.

Briefly considering to just stay in bed (and quickly discarding the idea), Harry folded back the covers to head for the bathroom. While the cold water always woke him up enough to get to breakfast without falling asleep, it didn't help against the stinging headache Harry suffered through after a night spent mostly staring at the ceiling.

Stepping into the empty common room, he took a look at the time. To his horror, it was already well past breakfast – in fact, he was already late for Transfiguration. Cursing the world in general and nightmares in particular, Harry quickly grabbed his bag, guiltily remembering that he hadn't even touched his schoolbooks the evening before. After stuffing some parchment and a quill into the bag, he hurried through the portrait hole and through Hogwarts' corridors.

Much to Harry's relief, Professor McGonagall read out his name on the list just as he slipped into the classroom – technically, he wasn't late, thank Godric.

'I nicked some toast from breakfast for you,' Ron whispered as Harry sat down between him and Hermione. 'Dreams again?' Harry nodded, flipping through the pages of _Transfigurations Training, Vol. III_ in search of today's topic.

'You look really terrible, Harry,' Hermione stated from his other side. 'Maybe you should go and see Madam Pomfrey?'  
'I'm fine.'  
'You're not. How much sleep have you had?'

'I'm fine,' Harry stubbornly insisted. Merlin's beard, couldn't those two just leave him alone?  
'Mate,' Ron carefully said, 'you can hardly keep your eyes open. Are you sure you don't want to go to—'  
'I'm not dead yet,' Harry snapped, louder than intended, 'so bugger off, will you?'

Around them, the class fell silent. Unable to ignore their conversation any longer, Professor McGonagall interrupted her explanations.

'Is there something you'd like to share with us, Mr Potter?'  
'No,' Harry shook his head, 'but perhaps I could work better if I sat somewhere else.'  
'I see,' the Transfigurations Professor nodded. 'It appears that there is a free seat next to Mr Malfoy.' She scrutinized Harry over the top of her glasses. 'I advise you have your arguments outside my classroom, Mr Potter. The same goes for your Mrs Granger, Mr Weasley.'

Harry pretended not to see Ron's incredulous expression as he sat down next to his Slytherin nemesis.

'Now,' Professor McGonagall continued, 'as I was just explaining, there is a hypothesis that explains the process of transforming lifeless matter into organic matter.' The class groaned in unison at the prospect of studying more theory. 'I know, I know,' Professor McGonagall continued, 'but this is a necessary qualification if any of you plan to pass your N.E.W.T.s, and I expect nothing less from you. Now, who can tell me the title of the hypothesis I am talking about?'

Next to Harry, Malfoy's hand shot up. 'Yes, Mr Malfoy?'  
'Johnny Folsom-Gilbert's _Theorem on the Magical Nature of Life_ , Professor.'  
'And do you happen to know the year in which Folsom-Gilbert published his essay, Mr Malfoy?'  
'Yes, Professor. 1955.'

The headmistress nodded appreciatively. 'Very good, Mr Malfoy. Take ten well deserved points for Slytherin.' She turned to the chalkboard, filling it with words with a flick of her wand. 'Folsom-Gilbert later died in an American Muggle prison, but his theories served to bring Magic Theory forward. In fact, some of his works are still being studied by today's scholars.'

From behind them, Harry could hear Ron whisper, _'Ten points, just because the slimy git gets something right for once?'_

'So, these beauties over here are our topic for the next few weeks. Don' let the teeth deter you, they're completely harmless. Now, get over here and take a better look at 'em!'

Hagrid's current favourite beasts were – if not only the teeth, but also the tails and claws, were something to go by – quite far from harmless. Nonetheless, Harry and the rest of the students carefully stepped closer to the fence that separated the creatures from the class.

'They're _Altdeutsche Burgdrachen_ ,' Hagrid explained with more pride Harry thought appropriate when it came to creatures looking that deadly. 'Their name means _"Old German Castle Dragon"_ , but they aren't real dragons. Just as deadly, though, so be careful.' The half-giant opened a gate in the fence and stepped into the corral.

Frankly, the creatures were quite ugly. Their torso resembled that of a lizard – a three-meter-lizard, for that matter –, while their heads definitely earned them the 'dragon' part of their name, all scales and ridges. The tails finally were most nasty to look at, seeing as the ends were covered in thorns. The greenish camouflage pattern on their backs increased the resemblance with a lizard. All in all, they were nothing Harry wanted to have within arm's or claw's reach.

'Alright class,' Hagrid shouted. 'Till the beginning of the New Year, this is our project. Their scales and claws are very potent potion ingredients, but only if you can take care of 'em and treat 'em right. For this lesson, you'll have to find out what to feed them. I'll divide you into groups, and each group will take care of one dragon. I have lined up different kinds of food over there, just try and look what they like. The assignment will be rated.'

To Harry, the whole project seemed pretty pointless. Sure, for a to-be healer, potion ingredients were important, but playing trial and error with a deadly creature didn't seem that useful. And feeding them definitely didn't sound appealing. Hagrid had set up tables with raw meat, salad, carrots, _sauerkraut_ , fish, and decidedly too many slimy or furry things, and Harry was afraid there was little chance for the beasts to be vegetarians. Reluctantly, he and Ron made their way to one of the dragons.

The other teams didn't seem too enthusiastic either. Not too many of their year had chosen Care of Magical Creatures – most of them, probably, in lack of a specific idea as to what career to pursue –, and the majority of their small group sported expressions ranging from bored to utterly disgusted. Nott from Slytherin seemed to play a staring contest with one of the creatures, Dean – usually a very calm and composed boy – stared at both Theo and the beast with poorly hidden distaste, Hermione mostly ignored her work partner (Lavender Brown of all people!), and Malfoy was loudly arguing with Parkinson.

Twenty minutes into the lesson, Harry saw his suspicions about the creatures confirmed when one of them ran its tail through his leg.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As you may or may not have noticed, I snuck in a few references to country music – **Johnny** Cash's **Folsom** Prison Blues (1955), a song about an **American (Muggle) Prison** (no duh!), as well as the name Brantley **Gilbert** ("Dirt Road Anthem").
> 
> I also realised that I am deviating from my original draft more and more as the story progresses – it's been no three months ago that I outlined the plot, and already I think some of it sounds too rushed or cliché!
> 
> — Hashtag


	10. Old and new friends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A short confrontation between Harry's old and new friends occurs, and Harry has something to ask of Draco…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, here's the next chapter. I'm deeply sorry for the four months of waiting, but my life is pretty fucked over at the moment (depression and suicidal tendencies), and writing isn't my number one priority when I consider cutting my wrists twice a week. So, please, please be patient with me.
> 
> For the same reason, this chapter isn't nearly as long as I'd planned, but with only a few moments per week when I feel confident enough to write down a few sentences, these 1,3k words have taken way too long, so I've decided to update before this story dies. Also, to make it easier for you to "get back" into the story, I'll add little summaries of the last chapter at the beginning of each upcoming chapter – starting now.

**The story so far…**

_Draco and Harry have begun to establish studying sessions together. When Draco asks for Harry's DADA essay to copy it, Harry learns that Draco's housemates even keep him from completing his assignments. Harry gets upset on Draco's behalf, which in turn snaps at Harry for always wanting to be everyone's hero. During the next Transfiguration period, a sleep-deprived Harry argues with his worried friends, and has to sit next to Draco when Professor McGonagall interrupts their argument. Later, in a Care of Magical Creatures lesson, Harry gets hurt, and has to see Madam Pomfrey…  
_

Harry had missed the rest of the entire day, just because his leg wouldn't stop starting to bleed again. After the bleeding had finally stopped, Madam Pomfrey had – albeit reluctantly – declared him recovered enough to leave the Hospital Wing the next day, in time for classes, but it wasn't even dinner time yet, and Harry was pretty sure that he was going to go mad until then.

Hermione and Ron had come by half an hour ago, and were currently catching him up on the lessons he'd missed out on, but in all honesty – Harry was only half listening. While he stared at the all too familiar white ceiling of the infirmary, he caught words like 'self-harvesting plants', 'magical fertiliser multiplying', 'advanced repelling charms' and 'protective wards', plus some texts the Professors Flitwick and Jones had ordered them to read.

'—Professor Flitwick said he'll treat this assignment like an exam, to see how we'd be doing in our finals,' Hermione finished. 'Oh, and Professor Slughorn told us that we'll have to study Veritaserum and write an essay of four feet on how to distinguish it from similar substances until next week.'

'What's that slimy git doing here?', Ron suddenly exclaimed. When he turned his head, Harry saw his best friend shooting hateful glares towards Malfoy, who had just set foot into the Hospital Wing. The redhead looked like he was ready to plunge at the Slytherin.

'Ron, not!', Hermione hissed. 'You can't start a fight now! Just ignore him!'  
'It's _Malfoy!_ ', Ron shot back, features contorted with barely concealed hatred.

'Ron _calm down_ ,' Harry interjected, just as the blond had spotted them and began to walk towards where Harry's friends stood.

'What does bloody Malfoy want from you?' inquired Ron, positively livid. Behind his back, Hermione grimaced as though she was a few seconds away from either giving Ron a piece of her mind, or simply smacking him over the head with one of her school books.

'I just remembered, I still have to learn for Arithmancy,' she quickly said instead. 'Ron, perhaps you could study with me?' It was an obvious attempt at distraction, but Ron – sending one last spiteful look towards Malfoy – allowed his girlfriend to manoeuvre him out of the Hospital Wing nonetheless.

'My, my,' Malfoy drawled upon his arrival next to Harry's hospital bed, 'Weasel looked ready to murder me. Does it always take Granger to keep him in check?'

'No,' Harry let his head fall back onto the pillow, 'he's just… having a hard time overcoming his prejudices.'

'You may believe me when I tell you that I don't take any pleasure in destroying your illusions, Potter, but I highly doubt that Weasley is even trying,' Malfoy remarked drily.

'What do you want?' Harry asked back in an attempt to steer the conversation towards safer topics. 'You didn't come here to pick at my friends, I guess.'

'Right,' Malfoy confirmed. 'I assume your _friends_ informed you of the subjects you missed, but even Granger can't have gone over all of your homework with you yet – let alone Weasley, Merlin forbid –, so I figured you might as well make the best of your time and start working on Potions.' He produced a school book from his bag. 'I reckon even your knows-it-all friend might find this to be challenging. Truth serums are quite complicated potions.'

 

Teaching Potter was like digging a hole with a spoon – there was progress, but it was slow. Agonisingly so. The Saviour might have his brighter moments every now and then, but it was all too apparent that he hadn't been born to understand Potions. Still, after a painful two and a half hours, Draco was confident that he had at least gotten the essential part of today's Potions assignment through Potter's skull. With a little more tuition, the other boy might even manage to deliver a halfway decent essay for Slughorn. Now, the black-haired Gryffindor watched silently while Draco packed his materials into his bag.

And of course the bloody idiot waited until Draco was almost out the door to call out Draco's name. With a sigh, Draco stopped, briefly wondering when he'd begun to listen to Potter just because the other boy wanted him to.

'Whatever your problem might be, Potter, why do you think it's important enough to deprive me of what little time I have left of today?'  
'I was thinking—'  
'Salazar stand by us, Potter has been _thinking_ ,' Draco mocked, but his voice lacked the malice it would have held a few months ago. Equally unbelievable, his remark manage to make Potter's lips twitch upwards the tiniest bit.

'And I mean,' Potter continued, 'I never thought I'd say this, but we're getting along right?' Draco raised his eyebrows, apprehensive of where Potter thought he was going to get with this conversation. 'And I thought,' _here it comes_ , Draco thought, 'we could try to be friends,' Potter finished. 'I mean, beyond enduring one another during studying.'

'I can only guess what drugs Pomfrey gave you, _Potter_ , but even in your painkiller-induced delirium you should be able to see the huge problems your plan entails,' Draco sneered, the venom immediately back in his voice. Merlin might know where Potter had gotten this idea from—

'And that would be?' Potter shot back, sounding disappointed but not the slightest bit discouraged, as though he couldn't believed that Draco couldn't see the genius in his idea. Just how ignorant Potter had to be to believe that Draco would hang on every of his words just like the rest of the world – it made Draco's blood boil with anger.

'For starters,' he growled, forcing his voice to remain quiet, 'there's the part where I'm a convicted criminal, and you are expected to hunt down people like me. It's nothing short of a miracle we haven't killed one another yet. Plus, as you said yourself, we're _enduring_ each other's presence. Not exactly what I would call _getting alone_. And, Potter,' Draco cut off the other boy's protest, 'how do you expect your friends to _"endure"_ me? Gryffindors or not, I highly doubt that the M—that Granger and your Weasel would be thrilled to hear that you are trying to _befriend_ me.' Draco drew in a breath after his rant. 'Face it, Potter. The world is a nasty place, and believe me, nobody's going to give you a medal for noble behaviour, or whatever you expected to get out of offering me your friendship.' Convinced to have discouraged the other wizard, Draco turned towards the door again.

'Are you finally done with your self-loathing, Malfoy?' Potter held him back once more. 'Because nothing of what you said were _reasons_ , for Merlin's sake! If you think I'm just saying this because I want to play hero, then you're still more of an ignorant brat than I thought.'

Well. Wasn't that the Potter they all knew and loved, Draco thought.

'And yeah, Ron and 'Mione don't like you, but d'ya really think I'd "endure your presence"', Potter actually made air quotes at this point, 'if I didn't _want_ to endure you?'

'Salazar, that sounds wrong on so many levels', Draco scoffed, enjoying Potter's stammered assertions that that hadn't been what he'd meant. He listened to the other boy's ramble for a few more seconds before cutting him off mid-sentence.

'I get it, Potter. You'll insist to be the gracious saviour and offer your hand in peace.' Draco shrugged. 'Whatever helps you sleep at night, I guess.'

'Is that a yes?' Potter perked up, and it almost made Draco regret his words.  
'Don't push your luck', he responded. After a little hesitation, he added, 'As long as you don't announce your heroic gesture to the entire school.'


End file.
